


Thorin's 13

by MadHatter13



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Agender Character, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Corporate, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And everyone has a beard because beards are cool, Dwarfs are a genderless race basically, Friends as Family, Gen, Genderqueer Character, Mental Health Issues, Ocean's 11, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:53:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 49,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1430896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadHatter13/pseuds/MadHatter13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alright, stop me if you've heard this one, but thirteen dwarves, a wizard, and a hobbit are planning a heist...</p><p>Bilbo Baggins is quite content to live out his uneventful life in the suburbs of the largest and most technologically prosperous cities in Middle Earth. He has his garden, his books, his telly...<br/>Then one day an associate from his mother's illicit past shows up, and everything goes cheerfully to hell in a handbasket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a full-length contemporary AU re-write of the Hobbit, mixing liberally both present-day normalities and the cultures of Middle-Earth, and effectively what happens when you re-read the book for the nth time and watch Ocean's 11 immediately after. Ingest with with caution.
> 
> Many thanks to my brilliant beta Jenny, who called me out on my atrocious treatment of tenses, and grumbled with me over the spelling of the word 'camaraderie'. I couldn't have made this worth posting without you.

There is a world some of you may find doubly familiar, and doubly strange.

It has elves, orcs, hobbits and dwarves.

It contains _homo sapiens_ , mobile phones and 24-hour convenience stores.

It doesn‘t have magic, dragons or giant spiders (but what is magic beyond knowing one more extra fact?)

It is kinder, and it is also crueller.

And in it, on the outskirts of a city that is much like many other cities you might have visited except for the greater variation in its citizens’ heights, there lived a hobbit in a traditional hole-in-the hill house. Those had been making a comeback these days with those who could afford them, but this one had been in his family for generations. The hobbit’s name was Bilbo Baggins.

At quarter to nine every morning he got up, pulled on his dressing gown, and put the kettle on. He had breakfast (generally toast), and then maybe second breakfast if he was feeling peckish, and then he’d maybe read a book if it was raining, or, if it wasn’t, he’d go out and see to his garden, where he grew vegetables and berries and flowers, and he truly did enjoy it. He exchanged polite greetings over the hedge with his neighbours, who wondered how me made a living because he didn’t seem to work. But they were never so impolite as to ask, although his cousin (who lived far enough that they weren’t forced to interact much) could sometimes be persuaded to mutter darkly about inheritance and strange money and why didn’t she and Otho get a cut of it?

And most of his days passed in a sedate, comfortably respectable manner, and generally, nothing much happened.

And it was on a day just like that, when he was out in his garden seeing to his tomatoes, which were coming in nicely, that suddenly and unexpectedly, something _interesting_ happened.

‘My word,’ said a voice above him with more than a hint of amusement. ‘I haven’t seen you since you were about the size of a bag of potatoes, Bilbo Baggins, and it seems that there I made a mistake.’

He looked up from where he was kneeling, and then somewhat further up again until his neck was craning to make out the person that had so rudely blocked out the sun. It took him some time to recognize the grey-haired man leaning on a cane wearing a slightly threadbare suit, although the man seemingly hadn’t changed since he saw him last. Or maybe that was why.

‘No, but… Gandalf?’ he said. ‘Gandalf Grey?’ He stood up and pulled off his gardening gloves, and even then the man had more than a couple of feet on him. ‘Why, I haven’t seen you since…’ he trailed off.

The old man’s eyes twinkled. ‘Since that ah, field trip, shall we say, you went with your mother on at that jewellery expo roughly thirty years ago.’

Bilbo’s face went blank. ‘Sure, let’s call it that.’ He looked about for something to say, and came up short. ‘I didn’t know you were still about.’

The old man raised an eyebrow. ‘I must be somewhere, mustn’t I?’

‘Yes, well… If you’re here to see her, I’m afraid she passed away several years ago.’

‘Oh, I am aware.’ Now in his eyes there was sadness, but nevertheless he went on. ‘No, I came here for you, dear boy.’ He leanedforward and said conspiratorially, ‘I am in need of people that will help me pull of a heist.’

Bilbo hadn’t realized he was still holding the trowel until he dropped it on his foot. ‘W-what?’ he stuttered indignantly.

‘A heist, my friend, a heist!’

‘Yes, yes alright!’ Bilbo hissed, glancing nervously over the hedge at his next-door neighbour, who was eyeing them curiously. ‘Not so loud, will you?’ Seeing the amused look on Mister Grey’s face, he said, ‘Look, I don’t do that stuff, okay? I never have, and I’m certainly not starting now. You’d be better off talking to just about anyone else but me, and that’s not counting the fact that I might call the police on you!’

‘Oh, I don’t think you will,’ said Mister Grey in what Bilbo considered an annoyingly breezy tone. ‘But I feel I must ask you to reconsider. As I understand it, you would profit from the venture quite handsomely.’

‘I don’t care about money –‘

‘Did I say anything about money?’ Mister Grey pulled an antique pocket watch from inside his jacket and flipped it open. ‘My, my, look at the time. I can see there will be no convincing you, you truly are on the straight and narrow. It was _quite_ interesting talking to you again. Enjoy your tomatoes.’

And suddenly he was gone, and Bilbo felt horribly off balance, like he had prepared to break down a door and then someone had opened it at the last moment, sending him hurtling through.

Blasted Gandalf, he thought. What right had he to show up out of the blue, turning over stones like no-ones business and the just _leave_? It would serve him right if someone put a stop to his little scheme, whatever it was.

And yet, he somehow never got around to calling the police...


	2. Bikers and dwarf raves.

That night, like every night, he made himself dinner, and was about to sit down in front of the telly when the doorbell rang. He’d pretty much forgotten about his earlier visitor, and thought it must be some poor encyclopædia salesperson that had made their way to the suburbs on the (not unreasonable) assumption that the people there would have surplus money to spend. And so he guilelessly opened the door, and then stopped.

                Towering over him (or so it felt) was a biker, and of the old school at that. Tattoos decorated his bald head, his leather jacket a dull brown and a rucksack thrown over his shoulder. His glare, now, that was a masterpiece, promising the recipient that they were only one wrong word from broken nose and a pair of concrete shoes.

                But a more unusual thing (and a biker in the suburbs was plenty unusual) was that he was a dwarf. You didn’t see them around the city much, although Bilbo’s father had told him once that back in the day they had been all over the place. The ones you did see were usually day labourers, hardworking, quiet, and once you had paid them they’d go off to wherever they’d come from.

                Bilbo’s first thought as he took in the scars and the muscles and the axe slung over the dwarf’s back (‘cultural accessory’ his giddy aunt) was _‘So this is how I die.’_ The second, which he didn’t have quite enough time to squish was _‘What will the neighbours think!’_

                After a two-sided staring contest which lasted some time, the dwarf finally grunted. ‘Well?’

                ‘Erm, yes?’

                ‘Where’s the food?’

                ‘Sorry, what –‘ The dwarf didn’t let him finish, but simply pushed past him, heading straight for the kitchen (how he knew where it was Bilbo had no idea). Bewildered, the hobbit stared as his dinner was stolen right from under his nose and he inexplicably found himself telling his guest (Dwalin, apparently) to help himself to the fridge.

                Again he was on the verge of calling the police, but a second look at the axe made him decide that he didn’t fancy a future in which his backbone was cleft lengthwise in two.

                This was when the doorbell rang a second time and suddenly there were _two_ strangers in his house, the second older but apparently brother to the first who now _literally_ had his hand stuck in the cookie jar. With his head spinning, Bilbo opened the door a third time, and two more dwarves, these considerably younger than the ones cleaning out his kitchen. The elder wore a grin he probably thought charming, and the younger smiled enthusiastically, hands resting in the pocket of his hoodie. After yet another round of ‘at your service,’ (which he was beginning to think was a dwarf thing) he _almost_ managed to shut them out, but then the noticed the others and very nearly crushed between the door and the wall.

                As the number of dwarves grew, so did the creeping suspicion in Bilbo’s mind, and it was at last tragically confirmed when through the door came Mr. Grey (Bilbo had stopped bothered closing the door after the first half a dozen dwarves.)

                ‘ _This_ is how you plan to convince me?’ he asked, moving out of the way as four dwarves walked past them carrying the dining room table and a stack of chairs. ‘By holding a dwarf rave at my _house_?’

                ‘Not a bad idea,’ said one of the younger ones as he passed. Ili, Vili, Gili, whatever his name was. ‘I’ve got some glow sticks!’ And then he did indeed pull several glow sticks out of the pocket of his hoodie.

                ‘No – just – argh. Just go eat, or something,’ said Bilbo, who even under siege was still operating on decades of deeply ingrained hobbit courtesy.

                ‘My dear Bilbo, I would not have come, nor would I have directed them here, if I didn’t think you were up to the job.’

                ‘That’s not the point! The point is that I don’t actually _want_ to break the law for a living! And anyway, why _would_ you think I could do whatever it is you’re planning, I haven’t practiced since I was a teenager!’

                ‘Oh, really? Then how come you still have that Lewis painting hanging over the fireplace? Most people assume it’s just a fake, but we know better, don’t we?’

                Guiltily, Bilbo glanced up, and then away. ‘I just wanted something to remember her by, that’s all…’

                ‘This whole house was your mother’s, wasn’t it?’

                ‘My father’s really. It wasn’t really anything like her. That,’ he nodded at the painting, ‘Was all her, though.’

                ‘Hm. Well, it also happens I spied you at the local Tesco’s _very_ expertly avoiding the detection of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins just the other day when she passed you by the biscuit shelve.’

                Bilbo shifted uncomfortably. ‘And? She’s just one person, she’s hardly difficult to hide from.’

                ‘She was standing three feet away from you and she didn’t notice. You are very good, almost as good as your mother. Admit at least as much to yourself.’ Leaning on his cane, Mister Grey pulled an envelope out of his jacket, and handed it to him. ‘In fact, it was at her insistence that I called on you before anyone else.’

                Frowning, Bilbo pulled a note out of the envelope, and unfolded it. On it said,

_Dear Gandalf,_

_I’ve gotten too old for the game and I suspect I don’t have much longer to go. The jobs we pulled together were some of the best times of my life, but you will need someone else to work with when I’m gone. Try my son Bilbo. He’s a bit of a stick in the mud, but some change of scenery will be good for him. I taught him everything he knows (but didn’t have the time to teach him all_ I _know.)_

_Your friend,_

_Belladonna Baggins née Took._

                ‘She sent me this only a few months before she died,’ said Mister Grey quietly.

Bilbo stared at the note, utterly dumbstruck. There was no doubt she had written it, this was exactly the kind of thing she would do, and she had been dead for seven years! Maybe she had never been able to accept that he was more like his father; responsible, respectable and law-abiding.

                Dimly, he noticed that there was a smaller envelope inside the first one, but before he could open it, there was what you would call a sold knock on the door (the eighth dwarf, Bifur, had broken the doorbell.) The change in the atmosphere was immediate. The dwarves, who had up until now been chatting loudly and exchanging greetings and insults, instantly quieted down and Balin, the second dwarf who had arrived, looked at Mister Grey, who said, ‘He is here.’

                Well, that couldn’t be more unhelpful or mysterious. Before Bilbo could open the door, Mister Grey had got there before him. And so there stepped through the door the last dwarf and Bilbo couldn’t help but be impressed. This one wore a grey longcoat and unlike the other dwarves, his bead was short. He wasn’t the tallest or the most threatening, and yet he was the sort of person who immediately turned everyone else in the room into mere background.

                ‘Gandalf.’ He said. ‘I don’t suppose you could have summoned us somewhere easier to find? I got lost three times on the way here.’

                ‘It’s true,’ whispered someone into Bilbo’s ear, making him jump. ‘He can’t find his way down a straight hallway without somehow going in the wrong direction.’ Bilbo glanced up and found Fili, who was despite his words looking at the newcomer like the sun had just come up.

                Poor at directions or not, apparently he had excellent hearing, and sent Fili a glare, which caused him to mutter an apology.

                Mister Grey merely hid a grin. ‘Bilbo, this is the leader of our little venture, Thorin Oakenshield.’

                ‘Right, yes. Hello?’ Gandalf’s tone indicated that Bilbo should know who he was, but he might as well asked him to name the president of the local golfing club.

                Oakenshield merely raised an eyebrow. ‘You picked a hobbit as a greaser?’

                Bilbo had to fight a sudden surge of indignation he shouldn’t really have felt as he wanted nothing to do with this. But it was the principal of the thing, blast it! Luckily Gandalf intervened before he could open his mouth. ‘You know as well as I do that the smaller the burglar, the easier it is for them to get in. Besides, this isn’t just any hobbit, this is the son of Belladonna Took herself.’

                This caused a wave of impressed chatter throughout the room, and Bilbo felt his ears turn red. Thorin alone looked unimpressed. ‘We’ll see about that.’

***

An hour later, every single atom of edible things in his house had been consumed, and Bilbo found himself squished grumpily between two dwarves, one of which had a piece of pickaxe stuck in his head.

                ‘Now, we all know why we’re here,’ began Thorin, but Bilbo had had enough.

                ‘Actually, no, I don’t. I have no idea what job is so important that _you,_ ’ he pointed an accusing finger at Mister Grey, ‘would find it a-okay to have a bunch of strangers show up at my house, eat everything in my fridge _and_ my freezer and just assume that I’ll go along with it!’

                Thorin sent Mister Grey an unimpressed look, and Mister Grey shrugged. ‘I didn’t quite have the time to explain everything to Bilbo, I’m afraid.’

                ‘Well, now you do.’

                Mister Grey shrugged again. ‘Very well. Bilbo, about that jewellery expo again when you were younger? You remember seeing many dwarves in the inner City, I’m sure.’

                ‘Well, yes. Now that you mention it you don’t see a lot of them around these days. But I fail to see what that has to do with –‘

                ‘You don’t think they all left willingly, do you?’

                Feeling the gaze of every single dwarf on him, he tried not to stutter. ‘I – what?

                ‘Forty years ago,’ began Gandalf, ‘Dwarves in general were among the richest people living in the City, and then almost overnight they became all but homeless. Most of them left for somewhere else, generally Ered Luin, where there was work to be had. The ones that were left cited dreadful treatment by official powers and descended into poverty.’

                Feeling the silence around him become stonier by the second, Bilbo nevertheless had to ask, ‘What happened?’

                It was Thorin who answered instead of Gandalf. ‘Smaug happened.’

                ‘Smaug? You mean the CEO of the Lonely Mountain tech company?’ He tended to show up in the classier type of newspaper a lot – even an outer-city hobbit would know him by name.

                On the other side of the table, Dwalin growled, and Thorin went on, his voice dark. ‘That company originally belonged to my grandfather, Thrór. Smaug headed a hostile takeover by buying all shares in the company until he had the board of directors by the throat and then had them declare my grandfather as an unfit head to the company. Then he seized the seat of CEO and proceeded to fire every single dwarf still loyal to Thrór, which made all of them.’

                Bilbo didn’t even know what to say. ‘What? That can’t be right, people would have done something –‘

                ‘Oh, there was a brief fuss while it happened,’ said the elderly dwarf, Balin, staring down at the table. ‘But it blew over soon enough.’

                ‘They thought we had it coming, ya see,’ said a red-haired dwarf Bilbo managed to identify as Glóin. ‘For daring to be richer than them.’

                ‘The Lonely Mountain and its daughter-companies were the biggest dwarf employer in the City,’ said Mister Grey, now solemn. ‘And by that time there was a lot of resentment against them, as they would hire dwarves almost exclusively. People that thought their turn had come weren’t about to complain.’

                ‘We filed lawsuit after lawsuit against Smaug,’ said Thorin, knuckles white. ‘None of them got through. His damn hide is impenetrable, and he’d never leave evidence against himself lying around.’

                ‘So now you want revenge?’ said Bilbo, and it came out harsher than he intended.

                Thorin looked him straight in the eye. ‘Revenge? We can’t deny it would be a plus. But most of all we want to take him down before he can make even more people miserable. And we want the company back, because when we have that, our kind can come home again.’

                Silence had been present at the table for some time, but now it descended so solidly that when the dwarves got up to take away the dishes, Bilbo barely noticed. Later, when they were scattered around his house talking amongst themselves quietly, he walked practically unseen along the hallway where he noticed Thorin and Gandalf talking.

                It came naturally, even now, to simply slip into the background and somehow just become a part of the wall; his shoulder a bit of picture frame, his hair a knot in the woodwork. He came closer until he could hear what they were saying, then stopped.

                ‘I ask you to find me a burglar, and you find me a hedonistic hobbit with about as much interest in our heist as he is in being tortured,’ growled Thorin, and Bilbo felt thrice times glad that he didn’t notice him.

                ‘I assure you he is as good as I say he is. I worked with his mother many, many times and he is as talented as she was.’

                ‘Then maybe you should have gone and resurrected her. Talent is useless without skill and working with someone not invested in the job is as dangerous as working with someone useless. You seem to have managed to find someone who is both.’

                ‘I believe you are selling Bilbo short. You have not seen what he is capable of.’

                Thorin snorted. ‘It matters not if he won’t join us. We will have to find someone else, even though we barely have time. What makes you so certain he is any good at all, anyway?’

                ‘Mostly it is from my former association with him, but,’ and now Mr. Grey smiled, ‘also because he has been standing in front of you unseen for about two minutes.’

                In a flash, a knife was in Thorin’s hand, and he only just stopped himself from giving Bilbo a second grin all around his neck. Then he put the knife away, visibly unnerved. ‘How in Mahal’s name did you do that?’

                ‘Uh, it’s – it’s just a trick. Really not that hard if you know what you’re doing,’ said Bilbo, and wondered if he was going to start breathing again anytime soon.

                ‘Don’t do it again in front of me if you like having all your fingers attached.’ In most cases, it might have sounded like a threat, but coming from him it was simply a statement.

                ‘Right. Got it. I’ll just, er, I’ll just go, now.’ He hurriedly made his way down the hallway, telling his knees that giving out right now would be a very bad move and, anyway, awfully embarrassing. Behind him, he could just make out Gandalf saying, quite smugly, ‘Do you believe me now?’

                He opened the front door to get some fresh air, and found one of the dwarves, the one in the funny hat, repairing his doorbell. ‘Cheers,’ the dwarf nodded at him, and then went on doing something with wires and a screwdriver that Bilbo, with his very limited knowledge of electronics, had no idea as to the purpose off.

                ‘Cheers. Um, Bofur, right?’

                ‘That’s right,’ said the dwarf cheerfully. ‘Quite impressed you can remember anyone at all with this many houseguests.’

                Bilbo gave a half-laugh. ‘My mother used to play a game with me everywhere we went. ‘How many hats are in the room, remember these eight car registration plates until tomorrow and you’ll get desert, that sort of thing.’ He sat down on the bench by the door. ‘Of course, I didn’t realize at the time she was essentially training me to replace her later.’

                Bofur laughed. ‘Ach, parents do the oddest things, and not always for the reasons we imagine. I remember hearing about her in the news back in the day. It might have been just another theft, but she made it daring, even funny. ‘Sting,’ they called her. She did the impossible, it seems.’ He looked up at Bilbo. ‘I didn’t much want to become a lawbreaker when I was younger, but I always admired that in her.’ His smile fell and he turned back to the doorbell. ‘Seems now I have no choice.’

                ‘What is it that you do?’ asked Bilbo.

                ‘I used to develop microtech at the company,’ he said, and Bilbo was confused until he remembered that a dwarf’s lifespan was about twice the length of a hobbit’s. ‘After Smaug took over and everyone got ‘laid off’ I got the occasional job as an engineer. So I left for Ered Luin where someone would hire me. Nowadays I fix televisions, which I wouldn’t mind having as a hobby, but does lose its shine after the first couple of decades.’

                Bilbo was silent for a while. ‘I am truly sorry.’

                Bofur gave a brittle grin. ‘Aye, laddie. It’s not your fight. We’ll see to replacing your groceries.’

                Feeling more wretched by the minute, Bilbo shook his head. ‘It’s no trouble, it won’t be hard to replace.’

                ‘It’s common courtesy,’ replied Bofur. He squinted at the cluster of wires, the screwed the cover back on and pushed the button. Bilbo hadn’t noticed the bell had sounded off before, but now that it was fixed it seemed just another kick in the conscience.

                And suddenly the dwarves had all left, and Gandalf with them, and he sat all alone in his spotless (if empty) kitchen, and looked about, unsure what to do.

                Eventually, he went to bed, and it took him some time to finally fall asleep.

 

***

When he woke up the next morning, the absence of the dwarves seemed even more obvious as he pulled on his dressing gown, put the kettle on, and made himself toast. Bilbo never thought silences could be loud before, but this one was, and seemed to get everywhere, banging on his ears and making every whisper of movement sound like war drums.

                He only noticed the envelope again when he sat down to eat. It was sitting innocently by the sink, and he picked it up, his eyes drifting over the note from last night once more. It was then when he noticed, again, the second envelope inside the first. Having nothing better to do, he pulled it out, and found that it was addressed to him.

                He dithered for a while before opening it, and pulled out a second note, written in the same hand as the first.

                _Dear Bilbo,_

_If you’re reading this, I’m probably dead. Sorry about that. You’re probably feeling contrite because of my letter to Gandalf, and I understand. In honesty you are very much like your father, but I suspect that you like a bit of fun as much as I do (did?)_

_Let me guess; this morning you got up around nine, had a cuppa and maybe some toast? And later you’ll read a book or work in your garden and then have a lonely lunch and dinner._

_There is nothing wrong with any of that (although the loneliness is up for debate) but a soul can’t thrive without something unexpected now and then. So do your deceased mother (and yourself) a favour, a live a little._

_Remember how I said in the first letter that my jobs were some of the best times of my life? Well, the very best were sharing the fun with you._

_Love, your old mum,_

_Belladonna Baggins._

I’m not going to cry, Bilbo thought. Even though I always wanted to hear from her again these seven years. Anyway, it’s probably illegal to know someone this well, which is probably why she did, hah. And right now I am definitely not finishing the rest of my toast, getting dressed and try to find some way to get in touch with Gandalf again. Nope.

                In the end, he found a post-it note on his fridge (he didn’t even own any post-it notes) in a masterful hand which proclaimed, ‘In case you change your mind,’ and an address underneath. Cheeky bugger.

                He didn’t rush – he watered his plants first, did the washing up, brushed his teeth and even vacuumed before going out the door (and even then it was still only nine-thirty.) He got his helmet and his motoring goggles and got on his blue, environment friendly vespa, and drove into the city, nodding at his neighbours as he passed. Him going anywhere on a Saturday was so unusual that several of his neighbours called out, asking where he was off too.

                And so he grinned wryly and muttered to himself, ‘An adventure, I suppose.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe that some things are effectively a cosmological constant, at least in AUs. Which is why you will find what are effectively convenience stores, and self-improvement manuals and showers whether the story you're reading is about creatures comparatively similar to us, or tentacled, telepathic aliens that persist entirely on wolfram on the planet XXX Alpha Snargleflarg.
> 
> Examples in this chapter include encyclopædias, bikers, glowsticks (and thus automatically raves), Tesco's and vespas.  
> (I actually suspect Tesco's may be a parasitic lifeform that moves through the universe through the medium of useless consumerism - why would you buy Jaffa cakes at four in the morning? - but that's another story.)


	3. In case of trolls, break glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The trolls in this story have been slightly altered to resemble Discworld trolls - that is to say, they are made of living rock, but are essentially the same creatures. They also function extremely badly at high temperatures, and have been shown to shut down completely in deserts or just on a really hot summer's day, since they originated in the Hub mountains where it is very cold indeed.  
> All credit to Terry Pratchett for that idiosyncratic idea.

Half an hour later, he was outside one of the empty warehouses by the docks, glanced again at the address. No, this was the right place. But how amateurish was it to pick a spot like this? It would be the first place any copper with a sense would look. He’d have to have a word with them about that. There wasn’t much activity in this spot, but there was a car factory a little way up the road and there were always workers coming and going and they might notice something.

                He knocked on the side door, and there was moment before anyone answered. Then the door opened and Dwalin’s grumpy face appeared through the crack, glaring suspiciously on mere principle. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said, glare intensifying.

                Bilbo cleared his throat, trying not to feel overly threatened. ‘Well, I never gave you an answer yesterday and now that I’ve had some time to reconsider…’

                The door opened all the way and now there was also Mr. Grey, looking far too pleased with himself. Bilbo eyeballed him. ‘Look, just don’t say ‘I told you so,’ and I might not change my mind and leave.’

                ‘The thought never entered my mind, my friend. We were just about to start. Do let him in, Dwalin, before someone notices.’

                The warehouse was indeed mostly empty, except for a single large table in the middle, covered in papers and surrounded by chairs. The dwarves had sat themselves around it, and looked up as they approached. ‘Oi, seems like the burglar has decided to join us!’ called Bofur, and as one the dwarves groaned and put money on the table, which Gandalf whisked up as he walked past. Thorin, who was standing in front of a whiteboard, only looked up and then didn’t so much as nod to Bilbo, who sat down next to the old deaf dwarf called Óin.

                Thorin nodded to a young dwarf in a cable-knitted cardigan who had an armful of rolled up charts. ‘Ori.’ Then he pulled up a chair by the whiteboard, and waited.

                Ori managed to make it over there and turn on the slides without dropping anything, and cleared his somewhat reedy voice. ‘Uh, so these shots were taken around and inside Thranduil Alder’s company, which Nori got hold of,’ the dwarf Bilbo couldn’t help but refer to as ‘starfish’ due to his haircut, raised a hand, ‘And as you can see there are cameras here, here and _here_ , which are not going to be easy to get past –‘

                ‘Hang on,’ Bilbo interrupted. ‘I thought you were intending to break into the Lonely Mountain?’

                The dwarf scratched at his beard. ‘Yeah, see, to do that, we’d need to have the current blueprints of the building before we could so much as sneeze in that direction. And we don’t, because Smaug pretty much hunted down the architects and had them offed, and all the blueprints in existence are with him, _except_ for a single copy kept by Alder. We aren’t sure why he has them, other than he’s a major company shareholder, but we’re pretty sure Smaug doesn’t know about them. So before we can even _think_ of going for the vault we need to break into Alder’s company first.’

                ‘Right. You certainly don’t go for the lowest point of attack, do you,’ Bilbo muttered.

                Mister Grey rose to his feet. ‘And further on, we will need help before we manage to do that.’

                Thorin’s perma-glare swung around and attached itself to the old man. ‘We have been through this. I will not ask for help from Elrond to get the blueprints.’

                Mister Grey’s thick eyebrows climbed down his forehead. ‘And I tell you again, there is no other way! The only one half-way likely to know the layout of the place is Elrond and thus we will _have_ to ask for his help.’

                ‘I would rather redraw the entire thing from memory than breathe a word of this to him,’ said Thorin, his expression stormy.

                ‘Uh, as I was saying,’ Ori said, cutting in in an obvious attempt to divert an argument, ‘In the first place there are the camera’s, which Kili will see to,’ Bilbo glanced across the table to see the young dwarf in the hoodie nod and tap something on his smartphone, clearly playing Angry Birds. How reassuring.

‘And then there’s the matter of getting into the building in the first place. Dori and I scoped the place out and on Thursdays at seven the cleaners come in, and the service is managed by a couple of dwarves. They’ve agreed to switch places with us in exchange for payment.’

‘What makes you think they won’t tell on you?’ Asked Bilbo.

The red-headed Glóin pulled himself up, looking indignant. ‘Are you saying you don’t believe them honest?’

Bilbo gave him a blank look. ‘Well yes. If they’re ready to perhaps not break the law but at least turn a blind eye for money, why wouldn’t they talk to whoever else paid them?’

‘We don’t pay them all at once,’ said Thorin, looking annoyed. ‘They get half before the mission, half afterwards and we make sure they don’t know our names and to police, elven or men, all dwarves look the same. They won’t catch us.’

Bilbo nodded. ‘See, that’s good, you’ve covered your bases. But what will you do if something goes wrong?’

Thorin frowned. ‘Nothing _will_ go wrong.’

‘No, you _can’t_ work like that. You have to make room for mistakes, otherwise the whole operation will fold at the slightest disturbance. You also have to have a larger window of time, or this will be a shoddy job with a much higher level of risk, meaning there’s a bigger chance you get caught and _then_ how are you going to finish this?’ Bilbo noticed the expanding ring of silence around him, and cleared his throat. ‘I mean, uh. Yes.’

The silence went on. Then Balin leaned forward, and said, ‘How would _you_ do this, Mister Baggins?’

***

The discussions went onfor most of the day, always verging on an argument (and sometimes not verging at all) and by seven Bilbo had had it with the stubbornness of dwarves and their ability to make the most insane plans sound reasonable. So when several of them stretched and said something about getting a bite, he was happy to join them.

                In the end it fell on Kili and Fili as the youngest to fetch food for everyone else, and their orders were ridiculously specific (‘Tuna sandwich but hold the tuna,’ ‘Double shish-kebab with extra meat,’ ‘Just a quadruple espresso, please.’) So Bilbo trailed after them as they left the building with a laundry list of food-items wondering just where the hell they were supposed to get all of them.

                ‘And of course Thorin doesn’t get anything,’ Kili grumbled. ‘He never eats properly when he’s working.’

                ‘Hah, just wait until mum hears, then he’ll be in a basket of trouble,’ said Fili.

                ‘…Sorry, you mean to say Thorin’s your father?’ Thought Bilbo, immediately judging anyone who would involve their own children in such a dangerous job. Then he thought of his own mother and felt contrite.

                Fili scoffed. ‘Of course not. He’s our uncle.’

                ‘Ah.’ That barely made it any better.

                Kili seemed to sense Bilbo’s disapproval. ‘We may only have been young when the takeover happened, but we still have a stake in the heist.’

                ‘I never said you didn’t,’ Bilbo replied, although he wondered what it was.

                ‘Just as long as that’s clear – _shit!’_ They had just gone around the corner, and as one, the brothers picked Bilbo up by the arms and pulled him back.

                ‘What? What’s going on?’

                ‘Be quiet!’

                Bilbo glanced around the corner, and found three trolls standing at the other side of the street, craggy as granite, lichen growing in every crevice. The trolls you saw around these days were usually more refined, or at least polished, but these looked like they had just come down from the mountains. Nevertheless, that was no way to react. ‘Trolls?’ He said. ‘Oh, now you’re just being specist.’

                ‘Ssh! And it’s not so much trolls in general as much as those three specifically,’ Fili whispered, glancing nervously over to them.

                ‘Why?’

                ‘They’re heavy muscle for the Goblin King, for one,’ muttered Kili, looking like he would prefer to be anywhere else but here, like for example in an alligator cage.

                ‘Oh.’ The Goblin King was a mob boss known for being particularly vicious – even the residents of the Shire district had heard of him, mostly because ‘orrible murders are always nice to read about in the paper while relaxing with some tea and biscuits. ‘I know that’s not good, but why is it not good for you in particular?’

                Kili mumbled something indistinct.

                ‘What was that?’

                ‘He may have worked with the guy that assassinated our great-grandfather? And Uncle kinda flipped when that happened and kicked a whole lot of arse, some of it belonging to the King’s henchpeople?’

                Bilbo’s eyebrows rose. ‘Ah. Um. Still, there’s a chance they won’t recognize you.’

                Fili muttered something he couldn’t hear.

                ‘Speak up!’

                ‘We’re kind of wanted, the lot of us. Like, even those three knuckleheads will probably know it’s us.’

                ‘And you didn’t think to mention this until _now?_ ’

                ‘Sorry.’

                ‘Look,’ said Kili, ‘if we cut back along the alleys and circle them, they won’t even know we were here – _Bloody hell they’ve seen us!’_

As one, the three of them turned tail and ran as fast as their feet could carry them, cutting through back alleys and nooks and crannies and hidey-holes. Bilbo could feel the ground thunder beneath him as the trolls loped after them and realized fighting back would be absurd. Attacking a veritable mountain of rock with anything less than a tank would be the equivalent of trying to smash a house with a feather.

                Of course they were being hunted down on a rainy day as well. Trolls were much easier to outsmart in the sun, when it was warmer and their silicon brains didn’t conduct thought very well.

                They were almost back to the warehouse – he could see the now dormant car factory ahead and felt a moment of triumph, thinking that they had made it. But then one of the trolls knuckled out of a side alley in front of them, blocking their route. And behind them, the other two caught up. A part of Bilbo was almost relieved they didn’t need to run any longer – the brothers might be in better form than him, but dwarves were natural sprinters at best and they both looked awfully winded.

                Bilbo glanced about. There didn’t seem to be anyone there and to be frank he wouldn’t expect them to interfere if there was. Anyone insane enough to draw the attention of three aggressive trolls would be mad enough to be practically suicidal.

                ‘Heeey, Bertie! Haven’t seen you guys in a while! How’s the wife?’ said Fili with mad glee, eyeing each troll nervously, his back to his Bilbo’s. They had pulled him between them, something Bilbo appreciated although to be honest it probably wouldn’t do any good on the long run.

                ‘Divorced,’ rumbled the troll known as Bert, and looked even more thunderous than before.

                ‘Shame. Shame. Well, it’s been nice catching up with you lads but I’m afraid we’ve got a lot to do, people to see, you know how it is.’ They tried inching their way out of the trolls’ reach, but one of them blocked their path.

                ‘Boss says ‘e’ll pay a pretty penny for your ‘eads,’ he snickered, in a voice oddly shrill in someone so large.

                ‘Does he? Are you _sure?_ There’s got to be plenty more interesting people he’d want to have on his wall than _us_.’

                The trolls took no notice of him. The third one seemed to look about nervously, and nudged Bert. ‘’ere, ought’n’t we go somewhere folks won’t notice?’

                ‘Shut up, William,’ said Bert absentmindedly, but seemed to agree, as he laid heavy hands on the two brothers’ shoulders, almost making their knees give out, and ushering them none too gently forward. ‘We’re just gon’ take a walk over there, if that’s arrigth w’ you.’

                The two dwarves and the hobbit shambled forward, and Bilbo was amazed to find that Fili was still trying to keep face. Even though Kili looked uncharacteristically grim, he sent Bilbo an encouraging glance. ‘We’ll get out of this fine, don’t worry.’

                ‘You don’t really believe that,’ Bilbo mumbled back.

                Kili winced, and Fili said, ‘Okay, we might be in a bit of a pickle. Dwarves may be notoriously paranoid, but we still haven’t been away long enough that they’d start wondering where we are.’

                ‘Wonderful.’

                They were showed into the now empty car factory, the security system not doing much good. All a troll has to do to break in is to absentmindedly walk towards the nearest wall or door and not stop. The twitchy troll, apparently named Tom, smashed the wirebox before it could make more than a rudimentary wail. Bilbo only found it a little heartening that at least there would be plenty of evidence pointing to their murderers by the time their bodies would be found laminated to the asphalt.

                It didn’t help the trolls were arguing about just what to do with them, since it seemed they hadn’t expected to run into them in the first place.

                ‘We can eat them,’ supplied Tom, and was immediately smacked across the jaw by Bert.

                ‘Ye daft pile o’rock! You know that never works, you’ll just end up coffin them back up again later. Only nutritious thing in these bags o’flesh is the bones, and anyway, they gives me wind.’

                ‘Oh, gods…’ Bilbo felt nauseated, and judging from the colouring of his acquaintances they weren’t much better off.

                ‘Let’s just tear off’eir ‘eads an’ send ‘em to the King. No use arguin’.’

                Bilbo looked around frantically in the factory for some way of escape. There was the assembly line with its conveyor belt, unfinished automobiles stationary in their place; there the crane to move whatever heavy parts needed to be hewn right across the room and – was that a _whole_ car hanging from it? Apparently some lazy sod hadn’t bothered lowering it down. And at the middle of the room the furnace, still cooling down from today’s use.

                ‘Tha’s it, jus’ let me wring their necks and be done with it,’ William grumbled, reaching for the prisoners, who tried to scatter and keep together at the same time, Fili protesting eloquently all the while. But it’s hard to persuade your captors do anything when they are currently too stupid to keep more than one thought in their head at a time.

                ‘We can pay you more than the King ever could,’ he protested, ‘And if you kill us you’ll never get more than an off-hand thanks from _him_.’

                ‘Naw, you liar,’ rumbled William. But Tom looked intrigued, or would have if he knew the word.

                ‘How much, then?’

                Fili seemed to flail internally. ‘How much can you imagine?’

                ‘Er… Like, fifty pounds much?’

                Fili deflated. ‘Oh, just go ahead. You’re obviously too stupid to reason with. Anyway, you’re making a huge mistake.’

                ‘’Ere, who’re you callin’ stupid?’ Fili yelped and Bilbo blanched when Bert wrenched the dwarf from the ground, glaring at him. On the ground, Kili yelled at him to let his brother go and Bilbo, although terrified to his core, sighed. So much for keeping a handle on the situation.

                ‘Listen, dwarfling,’ Bert growled, oblivious of Kili who was industriously kicking him in the leg, ‘You got no call to be talking us down cos for what? ‘Cos you ain’t worth nothin’. You’re shite. You and the rest of your kind, and the only reason the Goblin King is even aware of your existence is because of your nutcase of an uncle, or you would be as unnoticeable as the cockroach you are. And when yer gone, the rest of you maggots’ are gonna slither back into the mountains you came from.’

                Kili and Fili both looked momentarily drawn, and Bilbo wondered why anyone would get side-tracked by some henchman smack-talk, although it was hard to remain optimistic in such a situation.

                Then, out of the shadows, a voice.

                ‘He’s right, you know.’

                The entire outfit of kidnappers and kidnappees rotated approximately one hundred degrees and peered into the darkness of the factory floor. A dark shape, barely distinguishable from the shadows, lurked just outside of recognition.

                ‘Whozzat?’ mumbled Tom.

                A match was struck in the shadows, and Thorin lit his pipe. The match went out, but the embers of the tobacco cast a heavy glow on his steady brow, and the smell of smoke swirled its way across the floor.

                ‘I am amazed you let yourself get caught. And by these three brickheads.’ Fili seemed indignant at the scolding, and Kili looked suitably chastened. Bilbo wondered whether this was a diversion, although he didn’t put it past Thorin to be the sort to go for something as stupid as a Last Stand. Furtively, he began to look for the right moment to escape.

                ‘What did you say?’ roared William, his eyes looking for a moment like the lava they originated from.

                ‘I suppose I should have expected the so-called Goblin King to hold a grudge, but when you get back to him you can tell him he will regret it if harm comes to my family.’ The embers flared momentarily.

                ‘Oh yeah? And what are _you_ gonna do ‘bout it, mister ‘I don’t dare come out of the dark’?’ Which, Bilbo thought, sounded uncharacteristically sarky for a troll. Probably it was due to the lowering temperatures, or something.

                Thorin paid this no heed. ‘You know, you probably _are_ right. We dwarves really are a menace. I might even go so far to say it would be a great courtesy of us to leave you all be.’

                For a moment, Bilbo caught a look of concern on Kili’s face. ‘Uncle?’ There was a faltering note in his voice.

                In the darkness, Thorin took a deep drag from his pipe, then breathed out. ‘However, I’ve never been very courteous.’ And in a tone like a gunshot, he shouted, ‘Now!’

                And at the very last possible moment, it occurred to Bilbo they were standing right beneath the crane. And, more precisely, the pickup truck now rapidly dropping from it.

                Then the two dwarves barrelled into him, Fili having escaped his captor’s loosening grasp, and they hurtled out of the way just in time not to get crushed by the car dropping on the three trolls that (for them) had been standing so unfortunately close together.

                Then he was being pulled to his feet by a smiling Balin, the old dwarf nodding along patiently as Bilbo spluttered incoherently. ‘How – that’s – what?’

                ‘Oh, Nori went out to check the perimeter and noticed the three imbeciles being conspicuously escorted by trolls, so we went to check on you.’

                ‘But the _car_ –‘

                ‘Bifur repositioned it a bit and dropped it on command. Not very complex, really.’

                ‘You _dropped_ a _car_ –‘

                ‘Wouldn’t have had to if you chuckleheads hadn’t got yourself caught,’ Dwalin grumbled darkly.

                ‘It wasn’t like we were _expecting_ to see three of the King’s henchmen just standing on the corner!’ Said Kili with a distinct tone of annoyance.

                ‘You will have to, from now on,’ said Thorin, who had reappeared a stone’s throw away, looking at his nephew’s with a heavy brow and completely ignoring Bilbo. ‘He must have caught wind that I’m back.’

                ‘Nevermind that for now,’ said Balin briskly. ‘We need to get out of here quickly, before –‘

                The factory seemed to shake on its very foundations as the sparking mess of the pickup truck shuddered, was hewn up and hurled across the factory floor, putting a hole in the conveyor belt and knocking another car off it.

                ‘Ah.’ Thorin observed this stoically. ‘Run?’

                They didn’t get the chance. One of the trolls – probably Tom – hurriedly blocked the exit, then menacingly started to advance on the little company of people that, Bilbo realized, didn’t seem very good at planning ahead.

                ‘Youse think yer so clever,’ growled Bert, coming at them from the opposite direction. ‘Think you’re smarter than trolls, do yer? Well here’s a riddle fer ya, how many dwarves does it take to make a stoo?’

                ‘With you lot cooking, probably several dozen.’ All eyes in the building swung around to stare at the insulter, and with a certain degree of horror, Bilbo realized it had been him. Well, he was feeling nervous, but the best plan to get out of the situation probably wasn’t sarcasm.

                Unless…

                He glanced at the furnace cooling down in the back of the factory, and his eyes caught familiar a shadow lurking behind it.

                O… kay…

                ‘You wot?’ Bert glared at him something fierce, and Bilbo pulled himself up, terrified to his insteps.

                ‘You heard me. You’ll need a bit of practice before you cook this lot up nice and proper.’

                ‘ _What?’_ thundered the troll.

                ‘What?’ Kili mouthed at the edge of Bilbo’s vision. He couldn’t tell if it was general confusion or if he was insulted at the assumption he wouldn’t make for a good dinner.

                Backing away steadily, avoiding the eyes of his colleagues and the reach of the trolls, Bilbo carefully backed away so it was barely noticeable.

                ‘Oh, and I apologize for my associate; he really doesn’t have anything against trolls. Marvellous people, pillars of the community… Literally, sometimes…’

                ‘Oh, yeah?’ wheedled William, looking confused. ‘That’s nice of yez to say.’

                ‘Yeah, it’s just you _specifically_ we think stupid.’

                Tom hurtled forward, grasping for Bilbo, but the hobbit ducked away before he could be caught. Safely out of the troll’s grasp himself, Balin muttered to Bilbo, ‘This is a bad idea, lad.’

                ‘I know.’ He raised his voice. ‘Speaking of intelligence, how _did_ you manage to find them, if it wasn’t sheer dumb luck? I’m open to all suggestions!’ He now had their undivided attention, but the damned dwarves hadn’t yet made a move to escape. Idiots. He tried to nudge them towards the exit (well, gaping hole in the wall) through head movements, but they just looked confounded and more than a little nervous.

                ‘In fact,’ he went on, ‘I bet I could floor all of you without so much as lifting my finger.’

                ‘That’s it!’ Hissed William (and the sound of a hissing troll is truly something to behold.)

                As one, the trolls charged, and Bilbo found himself in the unfortunate position of being caught between an all-too-literal landslide and a rapidly heating furnace.

                Oh, well. When in doubt, jump.

                Moving just as years of playing catch as a younger hobbit and then the training of his mother had taught him, he ran towards the trolls, catching hold of Tom’s craggy knee and climbing like a spider up the rocky hide, finally reaching his shoulder and, before the troll could do anything but roar in disbelief, jump off. He landed, not very gracefully on the ground, and turned around just in time to see the mouth of the furnace fall open, the scorching hot air like a blast, but acting like some kind of a B-movie freezeray, stopping the trolls in the tracks. Silicon-based brains did _not_ conduct well at high temperatures.

                Nodding, satisfied, to himself, he turned back to his companions, only to find the majority of them staring at him, lower jaws lost somewhere on the factory floor. He shifted self-consciously. ‘Was that, uh, okay?’

                Before anyone could reply, Mister Grey appeared out of the shadows from behind the furnace. ‘Run, you fools! We haven’t got much time!’

                Thankfully, he was commanding enough to bypass their conscious mind and instantly triggered the hindbrain, causing them to go from stationary to sprinting in the span of a quarter second. As soon as they were out of the building, Dwalin shouted, ‘Which way?’

                ‘Scatter!’ Commanded Thorin. ‘Regroup back at the nearest safe-house in half an hour.’

                Bilbo was about to ask where exactly that was when Bofur hauled him down the deserted street by the sleeve of his jacket until Bilbo caught up with him. Bifur joined them, grunting something Bilbo didn’t know the meaning of (or he was just winded already.) And together, they disappeared into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cosmological constants in this chapter include Angry Birds, smartphones and kebab. (Honestly, the kebab is just the default invention of intelligent species everywhere.)


	4. Culture shock is good for the soul

‘Right,’ wheezed Bofur, as they legged it down the street. ‘Let’s go down to the docks, blend in for a moment, then double back.’

                ‘What about me?’ Bilbo asked. ‘Not to sound classist, but you don’t see a lot of hobbits at the docks, I don’t think.’

                They stopped at the corner to catch their breath, and Bofur tugged off his odd hat, and shoved it onto Bilbo’s head. ‘Pull up your coat collar – you can pass for a short dwarf if no-one noticed your feet. People around here generally don’t want to see what they’re stepping into.’

                ‘What do you mean – oh.’ Yeah, he definitely wasn’t looking down again anytime soon.

                The three of them shuffled down an alleyway and down a second street until they reached the smell of rotting seaweed and salt and the unpleasant smell of all the dreadful things people can think of doing to fish. Here there was something of a crowd, and Bofur nodded at several people; a few dwarves, several humans and even one goblin. The goblin, when he noticed Bifur, gave a hurried sort of salute and then scurried away.

                ‘What was that all about?’ Bilbo muttered.

                ‘Oh, you know how it is. My cousin’s a bit notorious in the realms of underground fighting and since an overzealous goblin challenger lodged a pickaxe in his brain they’ve all been a bit terrified of him.’

                ‘Sorry, _he_ got a pickaxe in his head and it’s _him_ they’re afraid of? Not the one that put it there?’

                ‘Well, no. He isn’t very scary these days. I understand he’s almost on solid food by now and can even walk quite well with a stick.’

                Feeling a bit queasy, Bilbo kept mum for the rest of the walk, until Bofur said something indiscernible to Bifur, who answered in the same fashion, and they changed courses, sauntering casually up the slightly more appealing streets of the outer city. Eventually, they reached a completely nondescript house opposite a Haradrim takeout shop. Bilbo had to admit that at least it was better than the warehouse, and said so.

                ‘Oh, we’ve got a bunch more,’ said Bofur. ‘Thorin’s practically manic for planning this kind of stuff.’ Then he looked momentarily guilty for some reason, but it flitted across his face so quickly that Bilbo couldn’t be sure he hadn’t imagined it. Bofur knocked a complicated set of something that was probably code, and the door opened immediately, revealing Mister Grey, who hurriedly gestured them inside.

                The majority of the company were sitting on chairs and sofas of whom not a single one matched, but Thorin was standing by the window, just so that he could see outside but not be seen himself.

                ‘They’re here!’ Kili rose from his seat, his brother following.

                ‘You’re late,’ Dwalin scowled.

                ‘Wanted to make sure we’d lost anyone tailing us,’ said Bofur easily. ‘Everyone here?’

                ‘You three were last,’ said Dori.

                ‘Excellent.’ Mister Grey rubbed his hands together. ‘Now that we are all here, we can discuss our first move.’

                ‘Which is _not_ going to be arranging a meeting with Elrond,’ said Thorin firmly, turning away from the window.

                Mister Grey’s patience seemed about to run out. ‘Then what _do_ you suggest we do?’

                ‘Contact some of your other informants. Edwards, Wesley, someone.’

                ‘They all died some time ago, Thorin.’ Mister Grey gave him a look that was somewhat pitying. ‘Men don’t last as long as you do.’ He sighed at Thorin’s stony expression. ‘Look, the only informants I have with enough security clearance to know _anything_ about where Alder keeps the information we need are elven, and Elrond is the one most likely to lend a hand. He doesn’t like what Smaug did any more than we do.’

                ‘Then he should have done something when he had the chance.’

                ‘You know he didn’t have the power. No-one did. Perhaps, had you deigned to ask for his help, things might have turned out differently. But speculation is useless, what is important is _now.’_

                Thorin was silent for a long while, and the room held its breath (well, the people inside it did, at any rate.) At last he said, ‘Fine. But do not expect me to be civil.’

                Mister Grey smiled drily. ‘You never are.’

***

As it turned out, he was exactly and completely right.

                ‘Pray tell, why do you need this information?’ The tall, imperious elf asked from the seat behind his desk.

                ‘Is that any of your business?’ Thorin looked like he’d been forced to eat a particularly sour lemon, and his mood wasn’t any better. Grumpily, he took a gulp of his coffee.

                ‘Since you’re asking me for the information, and it I who decide whether I give it to you or not… _Yes,_ I’m fairly certain it is.’

                There may have been a desk involved, but of all places to put one, they were outside, sitting by a table in the midst of what could only be described as a veritable forest of trees, shrubs and miscellaneous plants. In reality, it was the back garden of the estate belonging to Elrond. Bilbo liked a bit of greenery himself, but doing your taxes in a jungle seemed a bit much, even for him.

                Even with most of the dwarves not on their best behaviour, Elrond had been quite a gracious host, and there would be a buffet table waiting for them once the discussion was over. Seeing how their main negotiator was acting it seemed dinner wouldn’t be long. And a good thing too, Bilbo thought. After all, they’d never had the time to eat anything due to the troll fiasco.

                Mister Grey hurriedly butted in. ‘Nothing serious, just a bit of essential research, really.’ Playing it safe, Bilbo thought. Good, good.

                ‘And what for?’                              

                ‘Oh, we intend to break into a certain company’s most secure vaults, empty them completely, split the fee, essentially go home rich.’

                There was a crash. Nori had fallen off his chair.

                Thorin was gripping his mug _hard_ , and Bilbo could see the cracks forming around the handle and spreading out like a spider’s web. ‘What was that about being diplomatic, again?’ He ground out between his teeth.

                ‘I changed my mind.’

                Elrond took off his spectacles, and leaned forward across the desk. ‘Gandalf, I have known you for a very long time and generally trusted your judgement, so I hope you know I mean no disrespect when I tell you that _you are out of your mind._ ’

                Looking far too innocent, Mister Grey shrugged. ‘What would give you such an idea?’

                ‘Because the only companies worth hitting with such a plan and with a team this big are the richest ones, located on the City main street, i.e. the ones with the best and most dangerous security measures. They _can’t_ be broken into.’

                ‘It’s never been tried,’ Mister Grey continued, brazenly.

                Elrond scoffed. ‘Of course it’s been tried. Some idiots will not accept the impossible for what it is. And do you know why you never hear about it? It’s because if anyone heard about it, it would be bad for those companies’ interests, so they, how do you put it, ‘take care of it’ before word gets out.’

                ‘So you are in no way amenable to offering your assistance?’

                ‘No way whatsoever. Look, I won’t tell anyone what you’re planning, but I have my own interests to protect.’

                Thorin’s scowl probably couldn’t deepen much more, but it was obvious what he was thinking. _This was a waste of time._

                ‘Well,’ Mister Grey stood up from his seat, but while the dwarves followed suit, Bilbo hesitated. He didn’t seem all that put-out by the rejection.

                Elrond, on the other hand, looked slightly intrigued. ‘Although, just so I know what to deny knowledge of, which company are you preparing to hit?’

                Mister Grey glanced at Thorin, as if trying to recall at just what venue they were going to risk their lives and reputation. ‘The Lonely Mountain Tech company.’

                Elrond’s expression didn’t actually change, or freeze, but now his gaze was trained directly at the scarecrow man. A hush fell over the clearing-slash-office. Finally his eyes narrowed. ‘You sly old beggar.’

                ‘I’m sure I have no idea what you mean.’

                Everyone else looked back and forth between them, completely bewildered by the discussion taking place. At last Elrond said, ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

                ‘Very gracious off you.’

                ‘Why?’ The question seemed unexpected, and yet again Bilbo found that it was him who had asked it.

                Elrond gave him a shrewd look. ‘Let us just say that I, too, would benefit from the company… Being inconvenienced. I assume I am correct that this is intervention for the CEO’s transgression against you a few decades ago?’ This was directed at Thorin, and by extension the other dwarves.

                He only replied, ‘Yes.’

                ‘Hm. Well, I invite your associates to move on to dinner while we discuss terms. Is that acceptable?’ The complete and utter lack of sarcasm made the implication of it even more obvious, and Thorin just nodded.

                The dwarves, clearly cajoled by the promise of food, enthusiastically left the lively office, which was sinking into twilight, lights turning on and drawing in moths to circle around their luminance. As they were almost out of sight, Bilbo could hear Thorin say quietly to Mister Grey, ‘Let us hope you know what you’re doing.’

                Gandalf didn’t answer.

***

He probably wasn’t supposed to be enjoying himself, Kili thought.

Okay, so the food was something you wouldn’t give a rabbit and the music was pretty watery, but the view, well…

He winked at the elf playing the harp (how did Elrond have the money to pay for a freaking dinner-quartet?), then felt his ears start to turn red when Dwalin’s wholly unimpressed stare drilled through his skull.

‘Can’t say I fancy these elf women with their lack of beards and awfully pale complexion. Not to mention how freakishly huge they are,’ he said, drowning his expression of panic in a glass of vine. Dwalin just grunted, but is still staring at him.

‘That one’s okay, though,’ he said, gesturing at a more broad-shouldered elf serving wine several seats over.

Bofur, who was sitting next him, looks up and squints. ‘I don’t think that’s a lady, lad.’

Kili turned in his seat. ‘What, really?’ Then he shrugged. ‘I stand by my earlier words.’ At which point Fili caused a commotion by tipping over a candlestick, setting the nearest tower of origami cranes on fire.

After everyone was done admonishing his brother, Kili used the chance to change the subject, and turned to Mister Boggins (he knows it’s really Baggins, it was just fun seeing the look on his face when he never quite corrected him.) ‘So, the way you roasted those trolls earlier? That was _amazing_. How did you even think that up?’

Bilbo looked faintly embarrassed, and muttered, ‘Well, frankly it wouldn’t have worked unless Mister Grey had turned up the furnace. Trolls are really susceptible to temperature change. I mean, they aren’t actually stupid; they just evolved in much, much colder climates, um, which is why they get a bit slow in the lowlands.’

Kili blinked. ‘Huh. Didn’t actually know that, better file it away in case it becomes useful. So you didn’t actually, you know, burn them to death or something?’

Bilbo looked appalled. ‘No! I would never do something like that!’

‘What, not even if they were threatening your life?’

He straightened up in his seat, primly. ‘I am a pacifist, thank you very much.’

Huh. Kili stared at the table top for a moment before replying, maybe even jokingly, ‘You lucky bastard.’ Then he nudged Bofur. ‘So are we going to talk about when our burglar literally scaled a troll, or did everyone forget about that?’

Bofur said something indistinct through a mouthful of food, and Bifur grunted something in Khuzdul. Kili nodded. ‘You’ve got that right.’

‘Sorry, what did he say?’ said Bilbo, who was looking increasingly more uncomfortable under their scrutiny.

‘That someone who will climb a charging troll won’t have any trouble with the Dragon.’

‘The Dragon? Oh, you mean Smaug. I’ve always wondered why he’s called that, to be honest.’

Bofur, who had finally managed to swallow whatever he’d been chewing, held up a finger. ‘That one’s easy. You know how Sir Elven McFancypants over there said earlier that the big corporations take care of their own business?’

Bilbo looked vary. ‘Yes?’

‘Well, word has it that some mad genius somehow made it into the firm, and even got outside with whatever he tried to steal, but he got caught because he didn’t have an escape plan. Probably never expected to get that far. So Smaug has him brought to his private airplane hangar, puts the poor bloke down behind a jet engine, turns the whole thing on and he’s a pile of ash before you can say ‘extra crispy.’’

Kili swallowed. Even though he had heard the story before, it still made him queasy. Bilbo didn’t seem much better off either. ‘Well. I think I may be sick.’

Bofur shrugged. ‘Can’t deny it’s a good name. Very accurate.’

‘So that’s, ah, that’s what awaits us if we don’t succeed?’

‘Ach, no. There’s plenty of ways we can fail before he’d bother havin’ us roasted. We might not get in and get shot, or we might get discovered before we get a chance to get in and get shot, or we get in but get caught and get shot, or we almost get to the vaults and they catch us and throw us off the roof, or –‘

‘Yes, fine, I’ve got it, thanks.’ Bilbo looked grim. ‘That’s not very reassuring.’

‘Well…’ There was a note of shrewdness in the corner of Bofur’s eye that Kili seldom saw there. ‘Guess we better succeed.’

***

Later, when they’ve been ushered into the mansion’s spare rooms (there were like fifty or something, how rich was this guy) because negotiations weren’t about to stop anytime soon and they might as well stay, Kili elbowed his brother in the ribs. ‘Thanks for having my back.’

‘Yeah, yeah, just make sure Uncle doesn’t notice your little elf fetish,’ Fili replied in what should probably have been a derogatory tone, but was instead teasing.

Kili shoved him. ‘It’s not a fetish. Shut up.’

‘Great comeback, and I definitely didn’t see you wink at the one on the harp. You’re luck Dwalin didn’t notice _that_ particular discretion, or you might be even worse off than if uncle saw you.’

Kili thought on that for a moment. ‘No. Uncle would be worse.’

His brother’s expression sobered. ‘Yeah, probably.’ Then he brightened up and reached over and ruffled Kili’s hair. ‘Not to worry, we’ll find you a nice dwarf with a proper beard and everything in no time.’

Kili snorted. ‘Yeah, good luck with that.’

***

 

That night, in a bed that was too big and not his and with sheets that were too soft and nothing like the quilts littering his room like dropped newspapers, Bilbo couldn’t sleep. The darkness – which was brighter than in the suburbs, where there wasn’t constant traffic and light pollution although to be honest it was probably worse outside of Elrond’s massive estate – wasn’t his darkness. It was a ridiculous thing to complain about, he was well aware. And this was a wonderful place, but there was nothing familiar except what he brought with him, and there was precious little of that.

                _For pity’s sake,_ he thought. _You are a grown hobbit in your fifties. Stop acting like a teen at his first sleepover._

                It didn’t work, so he put on his jumper and his shoes (he hadn’t taken off the rest since he didn’t have anything else to sleep in) and snuck his way through the looming hallways with their freakishly huge furniture and elven interior decoration. He really didn’t want to endorse stereotypes, but there was just something about the whole house that screamed _elven!_ and it didn’t even do so subtly. Okay, so you could chalk a lot of it up to different cultures, but it was still just odd how different the living conditions between the races were, and often financially so.

                There were a few strategically placed guards littered around the estate. Bilbo knew that Elrond would probably refer to them as ‘assistants,’ but he was obviously a man - uh, elf - who hadn’t lived to whatever age he was by not being pleasantly paranoid. But Bilbo slipped by them easily (which either meant that he’s in better shape than he thought or that elven super-hearing was a myth) and wondered if he should tell Elrond about the gaps in his security.

                When he arrived outside, he found a gravel path to trace and it was pleasant to walk on something more natural than the asphalt of the inner city or (lords forbid) whatever unfortunately natural things that littered it. There was a slight breeze and almost unconsciously he moved with the swaying shadows of the trees so as to keep himself out of sight and not give some poor guard a stroke and, more importantly, so that poor guard wouldn’t stab him or something.

                The moonlight didn’t do much to illuminate his path, but the lights from the rest of the city did the job. At least the scenery was pleasant. Maybe he should consider hiring whoever did Elrond’s shrubberies.

                So lost in trying not to think too hard about the situation in which he had gotten himself, he almost did not notice the sound of voices until he was right on top of them. He came to a halt and identified the voices as Elrond and Mister Grey. Apparently they were _still_ talking terms. No, wait… Thorin’s voice was noticeably absent, and this was nowhere near the office where they had left them earlier. A private conversation?

                ‘I know that this is important to you, old friend, but you have to realize I am hesitant to put all my resources in one basket.’ This was Elrond, and he sounded tired and somewhat weary.

                ‘But please realize that Smaug’s new hierarchy doesn’t just threaten these dwarves specifically; it threatens all of their kind and frankly, everyone else as well,’ replied Mister Grey in a much more agitated tone than Bilbo had heard from him before.

                ‘Of course I know that. That’s why I’m not too thrilled to oppose him.’

                In a wry voice practically designed to ignite argument, Mister Grey said, ‘I suppose I must congratulate you on your sense of self-preservation.’

                Bilbo could see them now, distantly, and how Elrond did an almost complete turnaround to face him. ‘I have _tried_. Do you know what he did when I tried to move in on his corner of the market a few years ago? Suddenly one of my aides dies in a car accident, seemingly perfectly normal and then I run into him and he offered his condolences. And I could see it on his face, Gandalf. If I didn’t stop what I was doing it would be worse next time. He threatened _my family_.’

                There was a brief pause. ‘I am sorry, my friend.’

                Now Elrond did not just sound tired, but almost old. ‘I _cannot_ have any of this trace back to me. If any of my children… I don’t know what I would do.’

                ‘I promise you that won’t happen.’

                ‘Can you? Because I’m not sure this is the best investment for me.’

                ‘Why do you say that?’

                ‘Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I mean. We both know his grandfather wasn’t the most stable of people, and his father was as mad as a bucket of worms. I’ve heard rumours. Should I be trusting Thorin to handle this?’

                Apparently, hobbits weren’t the only ones capable of being stealthy, for it was suddenly that Bilbo noticed that the dwarf in question was standing silently behind him, listening in. _He must have noticed that I noticed him_ , he thought. _Should I say something?_

                ‘I can honestly say that he is the sanest man I have ever known,’ Gandalf said in a voice that brooked no argument. ‘Now, you will have to come down on either side of this matter. You know indecision could prove lethal in a matter like this.’

                Elrond sagged. ‘I will help. Of course I will. I don’t want that abomination harming innocent people more than he already has.’

                The both fell silent, and it was with a second start that Bilbo realized that Thorin had disappeared as quietly as he had arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene where Kili checks out the elf musicians was cheerfully lifted wholesale from the extended cut of AUJ. The scene where they discuss the heist with Elrond is very similar to a conversation Rusty and Danny have with Reuben in Ocean's 11, and one of the many that sparked this story.
> 
> The instigator, however, was when I watched this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tcRvN2gtPiw and immediately imagined a version with Gandalf as Danny Ocean and Thorin as Rusty. That and the mental image of Bilbo and Thorin watching Oprah together.
> 
> This chapter's cosmological constant: Coffee, shrubberies, and people being caramelized by jet engines.


	5. Differences

The morning after, Bilbo had not slept much but felt remarkably rested. The dwarves, generally, did not seem to share his feelings.

                ‘The beds were so soft,’ moaned Ori, rubbing absentmindedly at the back of his neck.

                ‘Thought I’d bloody well drown in it,’ growled Glóin.

                ‘Same,’ muttered Fili. ‘Do they make them out of clouds or something? That’s no way to live.’

                The grumbling was cut off by Balin announcing they would be leaving in half an hour and Bilbo, just as remarkably not feeling particularly hungry, wandered back out into the garden to have a last look before they left.

                Soon he found a creek crossed by a small, but beautifully carved bridge. It would have been an optimal place to stand, if not for the fact that it was already occupied by their host. As Bilbo dithered a short distance away, wondering whether it would be okay to join him, Elrond caught sight of him. Surprisingly, he smiled, but in a courteous way, and gestured for him to come over. Nervously, Bilbo did, and after making some forced remark about the weather, fell into silence.

                Elrond, though, apparently had no such reservations. ‘I would ask what business a hobbit had in the company of criminal dwarves, if not for the family resemblance.’ He glanced down at him. ‘I knew your mother quite well.’

                ‘Of course you did,’ muttered Bilbo. ‘Sorry,’ he added. ‘You could say it’s her fault entirely.’

                ‘Hardly entirely, since I gather she is no longer around to hassle anyone.’

                Bilbo stared at the water running beneath them, and shrugged. ‘Maybe that’s why.’

                Elrond leaned on the handrail, a contemplative expression on his face. ‘At least Belladonna made sure her particular skillset was still to be found in the world after she passed.’ He looked directly at Bilbo, an eyebrow raised. ‘Although you did not seem to have employed it last night.’

                Feeling his ears turn red, Bilbo cleared his throat. ‘Well, it wasn’t my intention to spy on anyone. It just happened.’

                ‘But you found our subject of discussion interesting enough to spend time listening,’ observed Elrond. ‘I take it you were not aware?’

                Despite himself, Bilbo found himself bristling. ‘Aware of what? All you said was that there were rumours Thorin’s ancestors were mad. I hardly find that to be relevant.’

                ‘Oh, I know his grandfather was mentally ill. We worked together on several occasions, although it didn’t pose a problem. But madness tends to run in families, or at least from what I have observed. And I have had a long time to do so.’

                Bilbo crossed his arms. ‘And? I find that attitude horribly prejudiced. There are plenty of people that are mentally ill, but that doesn’t mean they’re foaming at the mouth, stabbing people left and right. I had an aunt who was schizophrenic and she was probably the most practical person I’ve met.’ He looked up and found that Elrond was smiling, genuinely this time. ‘What?’

                ‘Nothing, but I find your resolve to be encouraging. I am invested in this enterprise as it is, but it helps knowing so are others.’

                ‘Yes, well…’ Feeling rather like he had walked into that one, Bilbo fell silent.

                ‘It seems to me that Thorin will not be eager to ask me for further assistance, but you seem more sensible. If you need help, let me know.’ Elrond pulled out a card with nothing but a single phone number, and handed it to him. ‘And now it seems that you are about to leave.’

                Bilbo glanced back, and saw Glóin at the foot of the path, gesturing to him. He turned back to thank Elrond, but he was gone.

                And he’d thought it was him who was supposed to be the sneaky one.

***

It was at his own insistence that he found himself back home for a change of clothes, and, as it turned out, with the rest of the day off as the company had some errands to run and favours to call in. This would have been a more appealing prospect if the first thing he set his eye upon as he dismounted his scooter hadn’t been the querulous face of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, she of the badly bleached hair and knockoff purses.

                ‘Cousin!’ he said, affecting as much courtesy as he could muster. ‘What brings you here?’

                ‘We heard you hadn’t been home all night,’ she said accusingly. ‘And that you had guests over the night before.’

                ‘Correct me if I’m wrong but I’m quite sure that’s not illegal,’ he replied, and then was shocked at his own almost-rudeness.

                ‘You’re never away,’ she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘And you never have late-night guests. They even say that some of them were,’ and here she lowered her voice at the scandal, ‘ _dwarves_.’

                ‘Yes?’ Bilbo hazarded. ‘And who are ‘they’ exactly?’

                ‘You don’t want to be seen with that sort, cousin,’ she went on. In Lobelia’s own little world, conversations meant that people kept quiet and she talked at them. ‘They could drag a honest hobbit into boozin’, unsavoury activities and bankruptcy.’ She said this with a certain kind of relish, and Bilbo had no doubt she dreamed off the day he’d somehow loose the house so it could go, by law, to her.

                ‘Really? I didn’t know you knew any dwarves. Or, was it perhaps ‘they’ who told you?’

                ‘I don’t know what you’re implying, cousin,’ she said primly.

                ‘Good, good… Well, see you around, must dash, much to do.’ He hurried inside, closed and bolted the door before she could reply, and leaned against it, giving a heavy sigh. Talking to her was like running a marathon against a racehorse.

                After he had showered, had a change of clothes, aired out and made himself a sandwich, he went into his room, pushed the bed up to the wall, and rolled away the carped underneath. The floor there didn’t look much different from any other patch of floor, unless you knew just the right place to push…

                There he found the small and the large lock pick kit, the special shoes so an unwary burglar wouldn’t leave any trace of themselves if they didn’t wish to, the glasscutter, the blowtorch, the climbing gear…

                _I probably should have known this is where I’d end up, on the long run. After all I never threw all this away._

                To distract himself he spent the main part of the day doing respectable things, like seeing to the garden, having a large lunch and a larger dinner, and waking up the morning after on the stroke of seven (something he hadn’t done in decades), having a hurried breakfast and dashing out the door to meet the company at the location they had decided.

                It was yet another warehouse, this on the opposite end of town, and he scoffed internally again. Well, at least this was in a much quieter part of town, but that would just make the sudden appearance of more than a dozen dwarves all the more obvious.

                Even though he was eager to begin planning, he was not impressed at Thorin’s insistence that they would strike against Alder the night after tomorrow.

                ‘That can’t possibly be enough time to prepare,’ he objected where they were sat around another table now covered with rings from coffee mugs.

                ‘We have the necessary blueprints,’ said Ori. ‘Glóin and Bofur will get you inside, Kili will run video interference from the car, we’ll be in and out so quick that they won’t even notice we were there.’

                ‘Nori will pickpocket the guard tomorrow so we can copy you the necessary pass to get to the upper floors. Fili will make sure you get the equipment you need to get into Alder’s office without tripping any alarms,’ Balin added.

                ‘We haven’t exactly been idle,’ said Bofur, shrugging.

                ‘And have you staked out the place?’ Said Bilbo.

                ‘Dori and me have been doing that for the past week,’ said Nori. ‘Thranduil’s schedule is impeccable; he’s in by quarter to eight, sees around three to four clients before lunch, generally goes out to eat with his son, is back at twelve thirty, signs paperwork for the rest of the afternoon and leaves at six.’

                ‘What about the guards?’

                ‘They’re pretty good. The head of security knows not to let them settle in. But they can’t help forming certain patterns. They have to let the cleaning crew in at nine every night, and there’s always at least one guard keeping an eye on them at all times. But they don’t check the cleaning equipment, or at least they don’t bother to anymore, which Bofur and Glóin found out because they’ve been going up there to act as cleaners for the last three days so they won’t be as suspicious. We’ll stuff you in the trash and they won’t even notice you’re there.’

                ‘Alright, but how do you propose getting me out of the trashcan, without the guard noticing, and away before he sees me?’

                ‘That’s where it gets tricky. There’s a small indent in the wall in the hallway where there used to be a payphone, in the ye olde days. If we can manoeuvre you there without the guard noticing you should be fine.’ Ori sidled over, handing him a set of the blueprints. ‘The security cameras are marked here.’

                Bilbo slumped back in his chair. ‘That’s an awful lot of ifs.’

                ‘Perhaps the burglar isn’t feeling confident.’ This was Thorin, who had been quiet for most of the meeting. Said by anyone else, this could have passed for a simple observation, but here it had the sting of an insult.

                Bilbo recognized it for what it was. ‘If I was confident I would be dead,’ he replied flatly. ‘But I gather it would be imperative that Alder would never be aware that we broke in at all, or we might as well abandon the whole thing.’

                ‘He won’t.’

                ‘Can you guarantee it?’

                There wasn’t even the barest trace of doubt on Thorin’s face. ‘Yes.’

                ‘Well. We better get to work, then.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a pretty short one, so I'll see if I post another one today.


	6. Only n00bs blame it on the lag

Tauriel sometimes wondered at the distinction people liked to make between online and IRL friendships.

                Did occupying the same space constitute camaraderie? She hoped not. She had met a great deal of people she didn’t want to think of as friends. Did that mean the people she often spent Saturday nights with, defending the space stations of the Alliance from rubberfaced aliens, didn’t really count? She doubted people had made that distinction back when the main mode of communication had been through the post. Just because she only ever saw the faces of their avatars and heard their voices on teamspeak, it didn’t mean they weren’t real people. Or at least not to her.

                Tonight, it was just her, Adelard, the-assassin-queen, gaysinspace (there is always one) and TheCunningBowman. She’d asked Legolas to join a couple of times, but he preferred comics over video games, and in any case he was a bit of a sore loser. Considering how the raid was going, the night would just have ended with him scrunched up on the sofa, pouting into his natural-grown celery.

                ‘I need a healer, guys!’ she yelled into her headset as she hammered her keyboard, the little red line of health points rapidly deteriorating as she happily spent the charge on her phaser, which at least wouldn’t be used up any time soon.

                ‘Oh my gods, what idiot decided to go all Leeroy Jenkins on these guys?! There’s like forty of these fuckers, we’re all going to die!’ This was the harsh voice of Adelard, whom Tauriel had for some reason always imagined as wearing faux-intimidating glasses.

                ‘You did, arsehole!’ shouted the-assassin-queen back. Tauriel was fairly certain she was human, and she sounded fairly young (well, humans generally were, in comparison do elves). ‘You said we could easily take them because we have a tank!’

                ‘Oh…’

                gaysinspace (who never spoke and they generally referred to as Bob although they didn’t know why) responded to the chaos by hurling a grenade at the enemy and taking out around seven blob monsters.

                ‘Less talking, more killing things,’ chanted TheCunningBowman, fully healing the team and stabbing an alien that, strangely, looked a lot like Gary Busey in the face. ‘Thanks, Bob.’

                Did anonymity make people more honest, she wondered. Well, if it did, the existence of trolls wasn’t very heartening. Or maybe it was a sort of whale (or was it veil?) of ignorance. They couldn’t tell what social class, race or even sometimes gender any of the others were, so you could only really base your impression off their voice and/or gaming skills. At least it meant it was harder to make false first impressions, which was probably a good thing.

                ‘I swear, Adelard, I’m gonna come over to your house and smash your face in the screen of your computer if you don’t up your game, jackass!’

                Though it was hard to figure whether assassin-queen’s penchant for violence was figurative or literal. In any case, keep a tazer on hand, or something.

                They managed to win about an hour later, but only just. Disgusted in their lack of skills, assassin-queen left the room, soon followed by Bob and then Adelard, who to be honest had been awful and probably knew it himself. Exhausted, Tauriel opened a bag of carrots to munch on wondering whether to go to sleep or go out for a late-night jog or something. It was her day off tomorrow, although she was constantly on emergency call in case something happened at the company. Nothing ever did, of course, but her boss was a paranoid bastard. She hurriedly un-thought that thought, just in case he could have her mind-scanned or something. He seemed creepily telepathic at times.

                ‘Starlight97? You still there?’ Now only CunningBowman was left (she told him once that handle fit better with a fantasy themed MMORPG, but he said he always used it anyway and couldn’t be bothered to change.)

                ‘Only just,’ she muttered into her still-on headset.

                ‘Rough day, huh?

                ‘You wouldn’t believe it. There was some kind of a minor security breach or something and the boss almost had a coronary. Kept us all after hours to sort it out.’

                ‘Ugh, I know what you mean. Got a new job recently and I’ve had almost no time to do _anything_. Seriously, we’re surrounded by slave drivers, or something.’

                ‘Are you still going to the con?’

                ‘I’ll try. I have to, I’ve been working on my costume for _forever_. Who did you say you were going as?’

                ‘General Foster. Instant classic.’

                ‘Nice.’

                There was a silence, which seemed bigger due to the Schrodinger’s distance between them. Eventually, she said, ‘So, uh, want to hang out, since we’re both going?’

                There was a brief pause. Then: ‘Um, yeah, we could do that. You know, if you’re not busy or anything.’

                Tauriel smiled. ‘Nah, I’m good.’

                Of course, it was pretty awesome too, having your online friends become IRL.

***

It was two days later, and Bilbo was in a trashcan.

                ‘I can think of an infinite number of things I would rather be doing,’ he muttered, as Glóin showered crumpled paper and used paper cups onto him to hide him in case the guards opened it to take a look.

                ‘Shut up.’

                ‘We aren’t even inside yet.’

                ‘Better start practicing, then.’

                Bilbo fell silent as they wheeled him out of the van, rattled him up the backdoor steps, and knocked deafeningly. There was the sound of a door opening, and a feeling of scrutiny.

                ‘Evenin’,’ said Bofur cheerfully, and received only a snooty ‘Hmph,’ in return. Bilbo felt the wagon being pushed along a hallway, going from the echo, and mops and brooms being unloaded as the dwarves got to work. He listened as they chatted about something inane as they worked, until Gloin finally said, ‘Where are the replacement bin liners?’

                ‘I thought you brought ‘em.’

                ‘I thought _you_ did.’

                ‘You always bring ‘em, why should I?’

                ‘Ye damn eejit, they were in the seat right next to you!’

                ‘Alright, alright, what’s the problem?’ said the harassed voice of the elven guard.

                ‘This chucklehead didn’t bring the bin liners from the car. Don’t worry about it, I’ll go get them,’ said Glóin.

                ‘Here, you can’t do that! I’m supposed to be watching you!’

                ‘Look, longlegs, I don’t get paid enough to care. Either you stay with this eejit, or you follow me, or you call a friend or something. All up to you.’

                This was the risky part. If the elf sent for another guard the plan would come to screeching halt and they would have to try again later. The same went if he stayed with Bofur. It all hinged on that he would follow Glóin on the assumption that he could get up to more mischief than Bofur, who still had the security cameras to worry about.

                There was a pause as the elf came to a decision, and the decision was in their favour. Apparently he didn’t get paid enough to worry too much about it either. ‘Fine. You’re coming with me, and you,’ Bilbo imagined him gesturing to Bofur. ‘Don’t move. At all.’

                ‘If you give me a bone I might even bark,’ said Bofur shrewdly, but there was the sound of footsteps moving away from them and then Bofur whispering into his microphone, ‘Now, Kili.’

                The trashcan lid opened and Bilbo climbed out, careful not to take any of the trash with him. Kili would with any luck be running the video on a loop, but that could only be done for a few seconds before anyone noticed. Hurriedly, he ducked into the indent in the wall, folding himself together and making himself unnoticeable.

                Bofur fixed up the wagon and moved to exactly where he had stood earlier, and soon there was again the sound of footsteps, now moving towards them.

                ‘You sure stayed still,’ commented the guard.

                ‘What, I didn’t want to take a wrong step and have one of you private security types shoot me in the spleen, did I?’

                A couple of minutes later they had left the hallway. Bilbo took a deep breath, and took a brief glance from his hiding place. There were security cameras about twenty five feet apart on each side, interlocking, moving from right to left and left to right depending on what side of the hallway they were. Their only blind spot was directly under the cameras themselves, and there was barely a three second grace period to move from one safe spot to another.

                And a one, and a two, and a…

***

Outside the offices of Mirkwood Enterprises, Fili, Kili and Nori sat in the back of an inconspicuous grey van. It really was inconspicuous, too. Rusted, marked with the name of some long bankrupt company – nothing like the sleek black vans so common in movies that would command immediate attention just by coming down the street. In a sedan across the street, Balin, Dwalin and Thorin sat, and in a buggy belonging to Bombur (who was absent and in any case his main role was as an investor) were Bifur, Óin, Ori and Dori.

                ‘Everything according to plan?’ came the voice of Thorin through Kili’s headset.

                ‘Yup. To them Bofur’s as good as motionless and Bilbo might as well not exist. They’ve left the hallway… I can’t see Bilbo but, you know, that’s good, so he’s probably doing his thing…’

                ‘Is the bug you planted in the security room working?’ said Fili.

                ‘Loud and clear. They’re mostly complaining about their boss and talking about the XtremeGolf match on Friday. Wait –‘

                ‘What?’

                ‘Oh no. This is bad.’

                ‘ _What?’_ came the voice of Thorin again.

                ‘Two of them are going for an off-routine check-up in the east wing of the building. That’s, uh…’

                ‘That’s where Bilbo is,’ finished Fili.

                Kili’s headset was quiet. Then: ‘Nori, Óin and Dori, you go distract them as long as you can.’

                The voice of Nori, echoing oddly as he was both next to Kili and online said, ‘Are you thinking a Bottleopener?’

                ‘Yes. Get going, now.’

                Nori tore off his headset, pulled a bottle of whisky from under his chair, took a swig and splashed some of it on his face.

                ‘Why did you even have that with you?’ asked Fili incredulously.

                ‘Just in case, lad. See you in a minute, hopefully.’

                They watched him out the window as Óin and Dori joined him from the buggy, and they walked up to the building, their steps turning wandering and they hung on each other’s shoulders for support, singing some lewd song Kili couldn’t hear.

                ‘That is some convincing drunkenness,’ he commented.

                ‘Probably they’ve had a lot of practice,’ said Fili. ‘Pass me the popcorn.’

                As the trio began hammering on the doors of the building, hollering and generally making a nuisance of themselves, the guards that were about to patrol, along with the rest of them, flocked over to shoo them away. This became harder than expected when Óin headbutted one who had stepped outside in the stomach, causing him to keel over. ‘Nice,’ Kili muttered.

But as the tableau went on (the guards knowing what level of trouble they’d get into if they actually hit a respectable member of society, even if they _were_ drunk) it became more worrying as a car pulled up to the curb and another elf stepped out, one who Kili could identify as the head of security.

                ‘Oh, bugger…’

                ‘We’ll have to get them out somehow. If they get arrested and processed we might be in serious trouble,’ said Fili.

                ‘Why don’t you go do something about it?’

                ‘Because I’m the eldest, and also, it’s cold. _You_ do it.’

                Grumbling, Kili pulled off his own headset, leaving Fili to take care of the camera work, and stepped out into the chilly air, wishing he were wearing a coat over his hoodie. Tonight was _not_ going the way he had wished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Tauriel, who I love dearly, because we all know that when you get enough sentient humanoids together, sooner or later someone will leave the party and go play Skyrim or WoW instead.   
> The game they're playing isn't based off anything specific, but I will consider myself a lucky little writer if I at any point manage to sneak in a Star Trek reference.
> 
> Cosmological constants:  
> -Stupid internet handles  
> -Leeroy Jenkins  
> -Gary Busey  
> -Conventions


	7. The uses of honesty

Tonight was not going as she had hoped, Tauriel grumbled in her mind as she stepped out of her car and walked hurriedly up to the entrance of Mirkwood Enterprises Of course, it was protocol for her to be present as head of security if anything happened, but she disliked the implication that her staff couldn’t deal with a few wayward drunks.

                By the door, one guard was sitting on a chair, holding his torso and groaning. ‘What happened here?’ she asked, raising an eyebrow at a second guard that was standing nearby.

                ‘The deaf one head-butted him in the stomach. You should have seen him earlier – completely lost his breakfast. Those dwarves have heads like rock.’

                ‘Where did you take them?’

                ‘The break room. You know, if this is going to be a regular thing you should ask the boss about getting us a holding cell or something.’

                ‘We’ve been over this, Medlin. As a private corporation we don’t have the legal jurisdiction to keep prisoners.’ She took left turn to the security break room and opened the door.

                Inside there were three dwarves of varying age (as far as she knew, she hadn’t known many dwarves in any case) and they were all singing, deafeningly, in Khuzdul.

                ‘Been jabbering at us in their lingo since they arrived,’ muttered Medlin. ‘Acting like they don’t know what we’re saying.

                ‘It’s dwarfish, Medlin. It’s a legitimate language.’

                ‘It doesn’t sound like they’re using it legitimately, captain.’ And it was true. Whatever they were singing it was undoubtedly quite graphic. Especially considering the gestures the red-haired one was making.

                ‘Either we chuck them out again and listen to them hammer on the door or we have the police come and pick them up.’ They briefly entertained the first notion, then Tauriel sighed and reached for her mobile. ‘Better sooner than later.’

                But before she could go for speed dial, a third guard knocked on the door, gesturing to her. She went over to talk to her, and the guard said, ‘Captain? There’s a fourth one in the lobby, looking really agitated and asking if his cousins wandered in here. He isn’t drunk, either.’

‘I better go talk to him, then.’ She exited the break room and went back to the lobby, where she found a young-ish looking dwarf in a grey hoodie, a head-and-shoulders shorter than she was. He looked dreadfully hassled and nervous, and when he saw her he asked urgently, ‘Sorry, _are_ my cousins here? I swear, I leave them alone for five minutes and they just vanish – Fili better pay me more than a twenty because I am _never_ playing designated driver ever again –‘

‘We do as a matter of fact have three dwarves in our custody,’ Tauriel said, cutting him off. ‘They were causing a ruckus and assaulted one of my security guards. And now they seem to be singing something I don’t know the meaning of.’

‘Be thankful you don’t. Oh, Mahal… I am so, _so_ horribly sorry. I just came in for this family reunion, and then the lot of them decide to go out drinking… I’ve lost count of how many pubs we’ve visited, but I promised and if I’d left they’d probably have gotten themselves arrested.’ He looked so miserable that Tauriel took pity on him. Besides, Thranduil wouldn’t like getting the police involved in any case. It might damage the company’s spotless reputation.

‘It’s fine. If you could just get them to leave I think we can agree to drop all charges.’

The dwarf’s eyes widened. ‘You would do that? Oh, thank you _so much._ I’ll just get them off your hands as fast as I can and then go drown myself in embarrassment.’

Tauriel hid a smile. ‘I’ll escort you to them.’ She gestured down the hallway and to the break room, where Medlin was standing outside with his hands over his ears.

‘Sorry, captain,’ he said. ‘But I had to leave or I think my ears would have started to bleed. Also, the deaf one’s eaten the entire secret biscuit stash and starfish head’s done something horrible to the toaster.’

‘Please fetch them, Medlin. This gentleman is a relative of theirs and is here to take them home.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Before long, he and a second guard were ushering the terrible trio out as fast as they could. The fourth dwarf said something urgently to them in Khuzdul, and the ginger one replied in a cheerful drunken manner, but they still managed to stumble their way down the hallway.

‘Bloody lawn-ornaments,’ muttered the second guard, once they were nearly out of earshot, but Tauriel noticed the sober one’s shoulder’s stiffen. Even if that hadn’t been the case, she scolded the guard; she had no use for staff who couldn’t think beyond useless prejudice.

‘None of that, Edraith,’ she said harshly. ‘I suggest you go and rejoin the others, I need you to go over the footage you missed dealing with the disturbance.’ The guard gave a chastened ‘m’m,’ and left, Tauriel escorting the dwarves the rest of the way out the door.

The fourth dwarf halted in the doorway, and turned around to face her. ‘Thank you again. You can’t imagine how helpful you’ve been.’

‘Just as long as they’re out of my hair,’ she said, but not unkindly. ‘Thank you for coming to get them.’

‘It’s no trouble. Well actually it _is_ , it so, _so_ is. But it’s nice to be useful.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Right, less talking, more leaving. Sorry for taking up your time.’

She smiled. ‘Nah, I’m good.’

‘Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye.’

There was a brief pause. Then:

‘Starlight97?’

‘CunningBowman?’

‘… _What?’_

If Tauriel had not been brought up by a very traditional elven family that believed poise and keeping face to be very near to godliness, her jaw would have dropped. ‘How are you here?’ Then her suspicion awakened. ‘You tracked my IP address?’

He looked as surprised as she did. ‘What? No! I had no idea you even lived in the city! I don’t even know your name!’

‘So you’re saying this is just a coincidence?’

He flailed briefly, causing strange looks from his cousins who were waiting down by the road. ‘You tell me!’

‘This night just keeps getting stranger.’ She rubbed the bridge of her nose, and then added in a voice that was almost, but not exactly, like an accusation. ‘I didn’t know you were a dwarf.’

He had the same look on his face. ‘I didn’t know you were an elf.’

_Does this then make for a whole new first impression?_ Tauriel wondered, _making all previous acquaintanceship irrelevant?_ She settled for, ‘It’s all pretty unexpected.’

His face changed. ‘It’s nice, all the same, to meet you.’

‘You as well… Just out of curiosity, what _were_ they singing about?’

‘Oh…’ He looked embarrassed, but told her. She blinked.

‘Huh. Is that biologically possible?’

‘I… don’t think so?’

So… I’ll see you around.’

‘Ah, yeah…’

He left, and Tauriel was left with the distinct feeling that she had missed something.

***

 

Kili wandered down to the car, his head like a cloud, driving him on. Well, that showed you how clear online impressions were. You think you know someone and then they turn out to be an entirely different species.

                He was so distracted that when he entered the van and sat down, his heart very nearly stopped when the voice of Bilbo said next to him, ‘That was all suspiciously easy.’

                ‘Sweet merciful Aulë!‘ Apparently Fili hadn‘t expected that either.

                ‘Don’t be so loud,’ Bilbo scolded them. ‘We better leave soon, before we drag too much attention to ourselves.’

                ‘How did you get out?! And why didn’t we notice you?’ Kili’s heart was still thumping and he thought an explanation was the least they deserved.

                ‘I used the commotion you lot kicked up get out. You were a bit distracted,’ and here Kili felt a brief internal panic before he told himself there was nothing illegal about running into internet acquaintances which then turned out to be elves during a heist. ‘So I snuck in here. And I’ve got the blueprints, before you ask.’

                Fili gestured wildly. ‘How were you so quick? We thought you’d be in there for at least another half an hour!’

                ‘Well, it turned out that the air-conditioning duct didn’t show up on Elrond’s blueprints. Now, usually nothing irritates me more in a film where some idiot is crawling along a space that’s inexplicably large enough to host a veritable party _and_ support their weight, but apparently they _are_ just large enough for hobbits. It shortened my route considerably.’

                ‘Kili?’ Thorin’s staticky voice carried to them from the speakers. ‘What’s going on? How did it go?’

                Kili looked at their burglar disbelievingly. ‘So apparently our burglar has finished the job and we should probably leave before the security guards start to suspect anything.’

                ‘…What? Nevermind. We’ll regroup at safehouse C. Over and out.’

                ‘Well. He sure is talkative.’ Bilbo sat back. ‘Got any snacks?’ He was much more confident than when they’d first sorta broken into his house, Kili noticed. It seemed success agreed with him.

                ‘There’s poptarts under that chair,’ said Fili. ‘Though we don’t actually have a toaster.’

                Nori stuck his head past the front seat, where had taken the driver’s place. ‘Actually, we do.’ He handed Kili a somewhat battered blue toaster, and shrugged at their collected incredulous glances. ‘I didn’t think they’d need it.’

                ‘Well, genius, where do you suggest we plug it in?’

                ‘Huh. Probably should have thought of that.’

***

To be frank, Bilbo was beginning to see why his mother had been so addicted to this lifestyle. Not that he thought he could live like this, but there was something about successfully lifting an item knowing you’d never be found out. Like the most impossibly intricate game of hide-and-seek possible.

                But there was something else, too. It came through in the way that Bofur slapped him on the back, making him almost keel over, or when Fili and Kili congratulated him and teased him about being stuffed in a trashcan, or the twinkle in Gandalf’s eye or even when Balin gave a small smile and Bifur nodded at him, just once. It was a sense of… camaraderie.

                Bilbo had to analyse that feeling for a while, because he wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt it before, or at least not for a long time.

                So he put the USB port which held the information he had been sent to retrieve down on the table, and then stepped back, his role essentially finished, and watched them look at the contents, and argue about the best way to utilize them. Thorin stood at Kili’s shoulder, watching the numbers swim across the screen with a look not of victory, but satisfaction, on his face. Gandalf, looking quite smug, said to him, ‘Will you at least concede that Mister Baggins made a positive addition to our venture?’

                ‘So far,’ Thorin only replied.

                Beside him, Balin snorted. ‘Would it kill you to at least thank him?’

                Thorin was silent for a little while. ‘No. But I will do so when I see fit, and right now I don’t, because I don’t know his motives. All I know is that while our future hinges on our success, after he has gotten what he’s after, whether it’s money or an adrenalin kick, he can return home. To put it plainly, I don’t trust him.’

                There was a long, deeply uncomfortable silence, which stretched out like a measuring tape of embarrassment.

                Finally, Bilbo, whose elation had now completely trickled away, said ‘Well. At least you can’t accuse him of being dishonest.’ Picking up his coat, he added, ‘It’s late. I better return home. Looks like tomorrow will be busy as well.’

                Bofur followed him to the door as he was about to leave. ‘He didn’t mean it,’ he said.

                Bilbo gave him a look that was almost pitying. ‘Yes he did.’

                Bofur conceded. ‘Alright, he did. But it’s more complicated than you think.’

                ‘I keep getting that impression but no-one bothers explaining it to me.’

                He waved his goodbyes, and wandered down the street, and thought, _Yes. At least he’s honest._

                He didn’t seem to have much else going for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought Thorin wasn't being enough of a jackass? Well, I have now proved you wrong! Alas, it is the fate of every character played by Martin Freeman to be surrounded by flash bastards in fabulous longcoats.  
> The insult of 'lawn-ornament' I nicked from the great lord Pratchett, as I couldn't think of anything original on my own.  
> Please leave a review; I thrive on knowing what you think.
> 
> Cosmological constants:  
> -Poptarts  
> -Toasters  
> -Hysterically lewd drinking songs


	8. Never trust an aesop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some mentions of violence in this chapter, in case that's not your thing.

It became clear soon that they’d have to plan for a considerably longer time. Thranduil Alder may have been paranoid, but he was positively lackadaisical compared to Smaug.

                ‘Who puts laser trip wires in an _air conditioning duct?_ ’ raved Nori, ready to tear out his trifecta of a hairdo.

                ‘Don’t even get me _started_ on the placement on the security cameras,’ moaned Ori. ‘There are _no_ blind spots. _None._ ’

                ‘We’ve been at it for hours now,’ said Balin reasonably. ‘Let’s take a break, or we’ll end up going in circles.’

                Thorin looked at his watch. ‘No. Let’s continue tomorrow. I have an appointment.’

                After he had left, Bilbo cautiously raised an eyebrow. ‘His majesty quitting before dinner? Must be a national holiday.’

                On the other side of the table, Fili grinned. ‘He isn’t always like that. Mostly just when he’s working.’

                ‘Could have fooled me.’ This didn’t invite any sort of rebuke, but on the whole the dwarves had been friendlier to him of late, whether it was because of the first heist or that they felt sorry for him. He couldn’t tell.

                As the lot of them prepared to leave, Bofur came up to him. ‘The lot of us are going out for kebab, or something. You coming?’

                Although he appreciated the gesture, Bilbo shook his head. ‘No thanks, I’m not really hungry.’ His stomach growled, but thankfully not loudly enough for Bofur to notice, and he forced a smile.

                Bofur’s gaze didn’t quite grow serious, but it was a close thing. ‘I know Thorin’s a lot to handle, but you did good out there. Distancing yourself from people isn’t going to work out, I think.’

                ‘I’m not – I’m, just. Not hungry.’

                ‘Arright.’ Taking out his pipe and lighting it, Bofur looked contemplative. Bilbo fidgeted, wondering if he’d be excused in walking off. Probably. Dwarves didn’t seem to have much truck with manners.

_Or maybe,_ said an obnoxious voice in his head, _their manners are just different from yours. Ever thought of that?_

                He was about to turn and leave when Bofur said, ‘There’s this old saga, pretty important in dwarvish culture from a literary point of view, that got written a few thousand years ago. I forget the details, but in it, a dragon takes over one of the old kingdoms and drives everyone out, leaving them homeless.’

                Bilbo’s puzzlement at this sudden history lesson was tinged with disbelief. ‘A dragon?’

                ‘It’s a saga, not a historical record. Anyway, they say there may be a grain of truth to it and that the kingdom was actually destroyed by some sort of natural disaster or something, but let me continue. So the lot of them have to leave their home and trudge across the land to find a new one. And they settled down all over, stripped of their riches and dignity and various family members and must rely on charity, but they get by.

                ‘Only their king, who survives the dragon’s attack, refuses to forget or forgive, and one day gathers a company – a pitiful number of people far from being apt enough to make the journey and slay the evil beast, and they set out to seek their lost fortune. And wouldn’t you know it, they succeed, but the king becomes consumed by greed for his regained treasure, and starts a war with just about everyone when he refuses to hand even a fraction of it over. Even though he regains his senses, it’s too late, and even though good triumphs and they regain the kingdom, he and some of his companions die. ’

                Now simply confused, Bilbo made a stab at understanding. ‘So… The moral of the story is that avarice will kill you?’

                Bofur breathed out, and smoke snaked through the air. ‘Maybe. I’m not sure. I like to think it’s more complicated than that. That they failed because they withheld their trust, and that they may have succeeded if this rift hadn’t opened up between them.’ Then, without missing a beat, he snuffed out the pipe, knocked it out into a nearby trashcan, and grinned. ‘See you tomorrow, then.’

                ‘Yes. Um, bye.’

                Leaving the warehouse, briefly trying to orient himself and remember the shortest distance home, he decided to walk for a while before using his scooter. It was a rather nice day, and he set out in what he vaguely thought the right direction home, meanwhile trying to figure out just what Bofur had been on about. It was clear he wished for Bilbo to at least try to get along with their fearless leader, which, you know, was a bit hard if the dwarf in question didn’t bother making any effort himself. But the look on his face and the tone of his voice indicated something much more serious, or at least important.

                He hadn’t walked far when he stopped and groaned internally. Thorin was standing at the street corner, talking to someone, and Bilbo tried to figure out some way to get past him without being noticed. He probably wouldn’t be in any case, but he didn’t really feel like having his motives questioned for happening to walk down this particular street.

                But then he noticed the stiffness in Thorin’s stance, and how it was different from his garden-variety stoicness. His body language was obviously aggressive, but he also seemed prepared to run if needed, and now Bilbo finally realized that the person he was talking to was an orc.

                This, in and of itself, would not have been a problem, if not for the fact that he was wearing the very noticeable tattoos that identified him as a member of one of the more nasty gangs, and the fact he had now taken a swing at Thorin, who without much of a fuss knocked him out.

                He wasn’t prepared for the orc’s friends, however, one of whom swung a steel pipe at his head, knocking him off his feet and the second of whom began to industriously kick him in the ribs.

                Bilbo was already digging out his mobile from his pocket by the time they were dragging Thorin into the back seat of a car, and pressed the first number he saw. It almost rung out before anyone answered, and then:

                ‘Hello, you’ve reached TeleVised. Televisions repaired while you wait – _shut up you bastards I’m on the phone_ – costs extra if you broke them yourself. No refunds if goldfish are found in the circuit breaker.’

                ‘Bofur, it’s me.’

                ‘Oh, hey Bilbo. Lads, it’s Bilbo, say hello.’ There was a chorus of indistinguishable greetings on the other side of the receiver. ‘Decided to join us after all?’

                ‘Bofur, I need you to listen very carefully –‘

                ‘Hang on, sorry, I’m just gonna go somewhere I can hear you. What did you say?’

                ‘ _Bofur!_ I just saw Thorin get kidnapped by a gang of orcs!’

                ‘You what? Hang on, what did they look like?’ Bilbo described them to him, and Bofur cursed so hard he though his ears might get scorched off. ‘That’s bad. That’s really, really bad. Means they work for Bolg.’

                ‘Who?’

                ‘Thorin basically got his father sentenced to life in prison – it’s complicated. Hold on, tell me where you are and we’ll come and get you.’

Which would be the smart thing to do, really. And honestly, what could he do against orcs or goblins or _anyone_ when he’d never even been in a fight in his life?

                … No.

Bilbo shook his head even though he knew Bofur couldn’t see him. ‘I’m going to tail them and find out where they’re taking him. I’ll text you the address.’ Hanging up halfway through Bofur telling him to _stay right there_ , he got on his scooter, strapped on his helmet, and prepared to follow the kidnappers as fast as possible on a vehicle whose top speed was twenty-five miles per hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this just got a bit meta. The notion that history is a wheel that likes to follow the same patterns of course isn't a new one, but it seemed like it fit this story very well in particular. Maybe there really was a dragon; maybe Erebor was located close to an active volcano, who knows? But a ragtag bunch of misfits going out to seek their fortune is such a common story that it even has it's own tropes.  
> Please review; it's the only way for me to know whether this is worth posting.


	9. Kidnapping for fun and profit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Further violence; some mentions of torture.

It was yet another warehouse. If there was somewhere a universal manager of clichés, Bilbo would have liked to inform them that they had already filled their weekly quota and really should think about changing venues.

                It was also heavily guarded, mostly by goblins, but a few orcs as well, and it was with a feeling of mounting dread that Bilbo realized the place probably belonged to the Goblin King. Honestly. If everyone who wanted Thorin dead just teamed up, they’d probably get rid of him a lot quicker.

                At least the King and Bolg, whoever that was, had done the smart thing, but that didn’t exactly spell success for Bilbo.

                He texted Bofur the location as promised, ignoring the message telling him not to go in, and began scouting around for a way to enter. Finally he saw an unattended window too small for anyone that wasn’t a hobbit, and scaled the wall with a couple of handy boxes. There he found himself in a tiny, dirty bathroom, and quickly locked the door, listening outside for any movement or sound of breathing. There was the noise of voices in the distance, but he was almost certain that there was no-one nearby to see him. He carefully unlocked and opened the door, peering outside. There was no-one there, thankfully, and he skulked outside, ducking behind a stack of cardboard boxes leaking some kind of a white dust he tried not to think too hard about as a couple of goblins walked past. Unlike what the movies like to tell you, neither of them happened to be conveniently discussing the location of the recent captive, but were instead talking about last Friday’s golf match.

                Trying to figure out the layout of the place with what little information he had, he hesitantly continued down the hallway, thankful for the easy (or at least compared to those at Mirkwood Inc) to avoid security cameras, ducking this way and that whenever someone came his way. At one point he had no choice but to hide in a broom closet until they had passed, but once he looked behind him, found that whatever this room was, it certainly wasn’t a broom closet.

                It was almost like a jungle of blinking monitors, coils of cable and wires crossing every which way like laundry lines, dull and bright screens on every flat surface. Some of them showed the feed from the surveillance cameras, one a paused game of Tetris, and another what looked like a recipe for citrus crêpes.

                And then he almost had a stroke when a hand clamped around his wrist and a hoarse voice whispered, ‘ _What is it doing here?’_

                Covering up an embarrassing squeak with a cough, he tried to make out the shape between the technological detritus, and found he had no idea what it was. It wore enormous goggles crowded with magnifying glasses which enlarged a pair of eyes that looked like sickly moons, and as for its species he couldn’t even gander a guess. It might be a very emaciated goblin, and was even approximately the right size for a hobbit, but that was all he could safely say.

                ‘Would you mind letting go of my arm,’ he said, trying to slow down his heart rate.

                ‘It’s not a goblinses. Goblinses never come to see us. No-one ever comes to see us. We might die here and no-one would ever know. They’ll never know what genius we are.’ Said the creature, seemingly to itself.

                ‘Just, let go, I really have to leave –‘

                The creature cut him off with a wail. ‘ _Leave?_ But it’s the first visit we’ve had for _ages_. If it leaves… If it _leaves._ We’ll tell the goblinses and the orcses, because it’s not allowed to be here. It snuck in like a _dirty. Rotten. Thief._ ’

                ‘I’m not a thief! I’m just here to find someone.’

                ‘No-one ever comes to find us, precious…’ lamented the creature, finally letting go of Bilbo, who glanced at the security feed.

                ‘Excuse me, but if someone were brought here… against their will, where would they be taken?’

                The creature, who had sat desolate back in its strange nest of cables and cushions, sprang forward. ‘We knows! We knows where! _Shut up_.’

                ‘Sorry?’

                ‘Not you!’ said the creature, and continued its constant conversation with itself. ‘It’s got to be _fair_ , can’t just tell them things for nothing. It wouldn’t be fair.’

                ‘I’ll give you money,’ said Bilbo hurriedly, reaching for his wallet.

                The creature made a face, or didn’t. It was hard to tell. ‘Pah! Money. We doesn’t care about moneys. Moneys are no use.’

                Feeling desperately around his pockets, he felt the plastic wrap of what was supposed to be his dinner. ‘I’ll give you… Food?’

                The creature’s eyes widened even more, if that was possible. ‘Food? Food! What sorts of food does it give, precious?’

                Pulling the packets out of his pockets, Bilbo peered at the labels. ‘Egg and cress sandwiches?’

                ‘Eggses? Eggses! Eggseseggseseggses!’ Give us!’

                ‘Only if you tell me where,’ Bilbo said hurriedly.

                ‘Yesyesyes. Oh. It’s two. If it’s two it’s again not fair, precious! Then we gets two and it gets one. It’s not right, not right, not right…’

                ‘Look, I don’t care! You can have the other sandwich as a gift!’

                ‘No, no, no. Must be fair, must be fair… We knows! He can have our inventions!’ Diving into the rubbish littering the floor, the creature produced a long pole with a padded bend on one end. ‘Portable chinrest?’ He threw it away. ‘No! Useless!’ ‘Butterstick? No. Shoe umbrellas? Definitely not! Noodle fan? Nope. Diet water? No, that’s just silly…’

                Finally, it produced what looked like a small radio crossed with a wristwatch, and showed it into Bilbo’s hands. ‘Yesyesyes. Now it’s fair.’

                ‘Look, just _tell me_ where I’m supposed go and I’ll be out of your hair.’

                ‘Of course, of course.’ Turning one of the screens around to face them, the creature nodded at it. ‘That should be where.’ On the screen was a familiar figure tied to a chair in a room empty of any other people, slumped and seemingly unconscious. Bilbo felt his stomach sink.

                ‘Which way?’

                ‘Down the hall, left turn, third door on the right, you can’t miss it.’

                Chucking the sandwiches at the creature, Bilbo bolted out the door, showing the strange device in his pocket.

                In his den of cables and monitors, Sméagol nodded satisfied to himself, and then ate the sandwiches, plastic wrap and all.

 

***

The door was unguarded, reasonably enough, since it was almost at the very centre of the building, and Bilbo quickly went inside, trusting that no-one had entered in the meantime.

                The room was empty of every living thing except for the captive on the chair in the middle of it, but it was full of leftover things stacked on rickety stainless steel shelves that nevertheless had managed to rust. Things like timber, boxes, tools, were piled so high they seemed like they might fall out at any second, dusty with disuse.

                He started towards Thorin, but the sound of the doorknob turning sent him hurtling behind one of the shelves for cover. Glancing over a stack of bolts he saw a truly massive orc enter the room, his face and head so scarred that it would have been impossible for any hair to grow there hadn’t it been shaved off.

                ‘Well, well. Thorin Oakenshield. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Heard you were in town and it seemed like the decent thing to do would be to invite you over for a little talk.’

                Thorin was silent and motionless, but the orc seemed unperturbed. ‘Not feeling chatty? Well, we’ve got ways to fix that.’ Then he struck Thorin so hard across the face that the chair rocked. Thorin was silent, but raised his head, and Bilbo thought he’d never seen such hatred on one face in his entire life.

                ‘Oh, you’re awake. Fantastic. Okay, so technically I’m supposed to tell the boss if you appear in town, but I thought I should have some time for reminiscing first. How’s the family, Thorin? Your adorable little nephews doing alright? Your father? Oh, right, I forgot.’

                In a voice heavy with rage, Thorin said, ‘Don’t you _dare_ mention my father.’

                ‘But I just did, short stuff. What, still pissed at the old codger for kicking the bucket? I feel you – after all I can safely blame _you_ for mine doing the same.’ The casual tone of voice didn’t change, but now there was a new edge to it, and seemingly for the want of something to do, Bolg hit him again.

                Bleeding heavily from a wound on his head, which dripped over his eyelid and down his face, Thorin said, ‘Azog was killed by some prison guard with a grudge. If he hadn’t killed Thrór it would never have happened.’

                Bolg kicked the chair. ‘He wouldn’t have been there if _you_ hadn’t got him sentenced there in the first place!’

                ‘If having him judged for the murder of my grandfather comes at the price of your hate, I will _happily_ take the blame.’

                Bolg’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t strike him again. Instead he said, ‘So what bring you here, Oakenshield? Did you miss having people trying to kill you?’

                ‘The air up north wasn’t agreeing with me.’ This earned him another punch, and a sneer from Bolg.

                ‘Joke all you want. Soon you’ll have wished you just told me.’ As he picked up the tool bag by his feet and rooted around it in, Bilbo thought, _maybe if I wait he’ll go away for long enough for me to get Thorin out of here. Dwarves are thick-skinned, right? I mean, in a human or a hobbit this kind of beating would probably result in a brain injury, but maybe he can deal with it._

‘Ah, found it,’ said Bolg. ‘It’s a little unrefined, but who am I kidding; it works.’ Lifting up a blowtorch and a poker, he said, ‘I’m not sure whether I’ll brand you or blind you first, but I’m sure we can figure something out.’ Turning on the blowtorch, he said, ‘I’ll probably go with blinding you, to be honest.’ In the chair, Thorin had gone even paler than previously, whether it was from blood loss or terror.

                Hah.

                _Not a chance._

                Taking a good run-up, Bilbo showed his shoulder as fast as he could into the already rickety shelf. It didn’t go down, but attracted the attention of Bolg, who briefly turned off the blowtorch and looked in his direction.

                Panicking, Bilbo pushed as hard as he could, trusting on the boxes of tools at the top to help with the leverage, and with a mighty groan of metal, the shelf tipped, almost in slow motion, and crashed down on Bolg. Bilbo briefly saw his eyes widen, before he was hidden by an avalanche of building supplies.

                Thorin blinked.

                Hurrying over to him, Bilbo started undoing the ropes holding him to the chair, eventually reaching for something sharp he couldn’t identify from the things covering the floor.

                ‘ _What_ are you doing here?’ Said Thorin flatly.

                ‘You can complain when we’re out of here, okay? Let’s just go before someone gets here –‘

                Just as he said it, the pile of debris shuddered, and he thought gloomily _oh, great. Another one that just won’t stay down._ Then a shape lunged out of the pile, lifting him up by the front of his shirt, and Bolg glared down at him, bleeding from innumerable lacerations, white hate on his face.

                ‘ _I’m going to tear off your_ face _, you –‘_

There was a loud crash, and then a thrown crowbar hit him in the side of the head. His eyes rolled back in his skull, his step faltered, and like an ancient monolith, he crashed to the ground, taking Bilbo with him. As Bilbo struggled back to his feet, he saw that the door had been broken down by none other than Dwalin, looking furious but only slightly battered, followed by Balin and Dori. When they noticed them they hurried over. ‘Is he all right?’ Asked Dori, worry clouding his face.

                ‘I think he’s concussed.’

                ‘I’m fine,’ Thorin said between gritted teeth, only to very nearly fall over if Bilbo hadn’t caught him. Balin and Dori hurriedly came over to support him for which Bilbo was grateful. Dwarves were heavier than they looked, and that was saying something.

                ‘How did you find us so quickly?’ he asked Dwalin.

                ‘Threatened to throw a goblin off the second floor if he didn’t tell us,’ the dwarf said. ‘We’ve taken out about half of them, but once they wake up and call their friends we’re in trouble.’

                ‘Bifur is outside with the car, the rest of them are holding off any opposition,’ said Balin. ‘We have about two minutes to get out and get away.’

                ‘More like one and a half,’ said Dwalin, striding through the door, picking up a goblin by the shirt and throwing him down the hallway. ‘Hurry!’

                It took them about a minute to get outside to the car park where the getaway cars were waiting, and by then most of the company had joined them, fending off orcs and goblins from every direction, focusing mainly on those that had firearms so they wouldn’t be shot down. Under fire, they piled into the cars and, shots pinging off what were apparently bullet-proof windows, left the scene of the crime with as much haste as possible, paint flaking off the doors as the just about made the corners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every invention mentioned by Sméagol really exist in real life. Even the portable chinrest.  
> Please review.
> 
> Cosmological constants:  
> -Really bad convenience store sandwiches  
> -Tetris


	10. This too shall pass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story goes  
> Or the way that I was told  
> There was a king that always felt too high  
> And then he fell too low  
> And so he called  
> All the wise men to the hall  
> And he begged them for a gift  
> To end the rises and the falls
> 
> And here's the thing  
> They came back with a ring  
> It was simple and was plainly  
> Unbefitting of a king  
> Engraved in black  
> It had no front or back  
> But there were words around the band that said  
> Just know: This Too Shall Pass 
> 
> 'This too shall pass,' by Danny Schmidt.

At his own insistence, Bilbo left for home, Glóin dropping him off at the top of his street to walk the rest of the way. It was late in the afternoon by now, and the neighbourhood kids played in the gardens or on the sidewalk, the adults returning home from work or other engagements. Despite his less than stellar appearance, none of them paid any attention to him whatsoever.

He felt exhausted to the very bone, and therefore when he found Lobelia Sackville-Baggins waiting for him _again_ , he was not happy.

                ‘Cousin, you really are away so often these days, your house doesn’t get any use,’ she chattered as he walked up the path to his front door, shoulder aching dreadfully from where he’d rammed it into the shelf. _I really did that just now,_ he thought. _Genuinely. I hope Dwalin didn’t kill that orc. Although I wouldn’t leave serious debilitating injury out of the question._

                ‘I would almost go so far to say that maybe you should relocate to wherever it is you’re spending your time these days,’ she went on.

                ‘Would if that were possible,’ he muttered, fishing around his pockets for his keys.

                ‘Oh, I know real estate agents in the city that could find you some very profitable opportunities –‘ she said, but Bilbo had had enough.

                ‘If you wouldn’t mind, cousin, giving me a chance to offer my side of the argument for a moment. I don’t _care_ if you know any real estate agents. Actually, cousin, I don‘t care that you want my house so badly you try to boot me out the door every time I see you. I don’t care that I’ve been away. I don’t care where you think I’ve been. But what I care about right now, _cousin_ , is that I am _tired_. Very, _very_ _tired_. And I would like to have a chance to rest without your inane chattering scratching across my mind like nails on a blackboard. _Is that clear?_ ‘

                Lobelia floundered, which was exactly as fish-like as it sounds. Nevertheless, she managed to find something to say. It was almost admirable how she could go on. ‘You’re covered in blood!’

                ‘What?’ Bilbo looked down on his shirt. Oh, right. It was probably Thorin’s. ‘A friend of mine got mugged,’ he said. ‘It got a bit messy when I tried to help.’ He looked up again. ‘Goodbye. Don’t bother calling on me.’ And so he slammed the door shut.

                He stood on the doormat, not quite trembling, for quite some time. _You probably should have expected this side of the job as well_ , he told himself. _You don’t like violence, but what choice do you have when other people are trying to do violence unto you? Or someone else? You can’t just let it happen._

                He did the best he could, which was to get out of his bloody and dirty clothes and shove them in the washing machine. Then he planted himself in front of the television, and stared at the screen without taking in any of what was happening, at one point getting up to find something to eat, and then repeated the process.

                He didn’t know how much time had passed, but it was at least a couple of hours later when his phone buzzed with a text message from Bofur. _Thorin left just now. Know where he is?_

Before he could reply, his phone buzzed again. _Meet me at the East City Park. –Thorin_

Good grief, what was he up to now? Bilbo had already saved his life, did he really have to talk to him as well? But he got up anyway, and phoned for a cab to take him there. East City Park was nearly on the other side of the city. Trust him never to make anything easy.

                It was nearing twilight by now, the day still and pleasant in a direct paradox to its happenings. It was early summer and with any luck they would been in for a seemingly endless numbers of sunny days and the occasional shower, but he couldn’t bring himself to care much about the weather as he exited the cab and walked down the path leading to the park. It was one of the city’s newer fixtures, only about sixty years old, architectured by humans and thus easier to transverse than the older elven gardens littered across the metropolis. There were children – elven, human, goblin – playing by the swing sets, and he wondered if they would be able to keep such casual acquaintance by the time they grew up. He truly hoped so.

                He found Thorin sitting on a bench overlooking the park and the hospital opposite it. His wounds had been cleaned and stitched, and he’d almost certainly had some kind of pain medication, but still looked battered and bruised and pale.

                He didn’t offer greetings any more than usual, so Bilbo didn’t either, and sat down at the other end of the bench, and waited for him to speak. It took time, but eventually, he did.

                ‘When I first met you, I would have said that you were a perfect example of a lazy, carefree, hedonistic hobbit.’

                ‘Yes, well…’

                ‘Now I would say you are the most reckless.’

                Bilbo paused. ‘Excuse me?’

                ‘You put your own life, and therefore our mission, at risk. The others are under orders to discard me as they see fit, but I didn’t think you would be so eager to throw your life away.’

                Bilbo was very nearly lost for words. ‘Look, you may not recall this due to being a bit concussed at the moment, but he was going to _blind_ you with a _red-hot poker_. Just what kind of a person would I be if I had let him?’

                ‘A practical one. Now Bolg knows something is up, and if he knows, Smaug knows.’

                ‘So you’re saying if it were you, you’d let one of the team ‘die for the cause’?’ Thorin was silent. ‘Hah! I knew it. And you honestly thought they’d take your order seriously if your life was in danger?’

                ‘It’s what they should do.’

                ‘’Should’ doesn’t have anything to do with it. Why are you so eager to throw away your own life and not theirs? Do you think you aren’t worth saving?’ And he could tell from the look on his face. _He doesn’t want to die. But it’s as if he’s convinced himself he isn’t necessary to whatever end this whole business leads._

                Thorin seemed to think for a moment. ‘This whole plan won’t just affect me, or the company. It will affect every single dwarf, if it succeeds. We brought it on ourselves, partially, with our isolationist policies, which I approved and helped make into protocol. The peoples of Middle Earth may generally bank with others of their race, but we took it to ridiculous lengths, which is why we were so easily ousted. I don’t want my family to live in such a world, especially when I helped to create it.’

                Bilbo mulled this over. ‘That’s _a_ reason, but it doesn’t sound like it has anything to do with the question I asked you.’

                There was a brief flash of obstinacy on Thorin’s face, but it vanished in the face of the evidence. This time, the reply took some time to arrive. Finally he said, ‘They are risking… _everything_ , on the off-chance that this ridiculous plan succeeds. If it doesn’t, the blame will be on me, and me only, because I convinced them to follow me, like the fool I am.’

The answer came almost immediately. ‘Then has it occurred to you that maybe they would prefer the world with you still in it? Your nephews obviously adore you, and while I can’t speak for the rest of them I know they need you to be safe, whether the heist succeeds or not. I don’t know what I would have said to them if I hadn’t at least tried following you.’

                ‘So you mean to say you would do this again?’

                ‘Honestly? I abhor the idea of redoing the whole thing but if that’s what it takes, I will.’

                As the children gradually left the park to return home for supper, the park grew quiet. The sounds of the city seemed to wash away in here, like the trees were some sort of a magical protection against disturbance.

‘Then you should probably know what kind of life you would be rescuing.’

                ‘Hm?’

                ‘Elrond was right. I’m not perfectly sane.’

                ‘Considering how you like to go around dropping cars on people, I didn’t expect you to be.’

                Thorin didn’t reply. He looked up across the park at the hospital on the other side, and said, ‘My grandfather was obsessive-compulsive. He handled it quite well, and mostly it wasn’t debilitating. My father, on the other hand, was seriously depressed, and it got worse after we lost the company and my grandfather was murdered. Three months later he killed himself.’

                He paused again, then reached into his inner coat pocket, and pulled out a cracked and discoloured hospital bracelet, and turned it over and over in his hands. ‘I didn’t deal well with what had happened. I became obsessed with finding out who had killed Thrór and getting the company back. When I discovered it was Azog I found him and dragged him to the city police, and got him sentenced to prison for life. After that… I didn’t know what to do. Nothing we had tried worked against Smaug, and with Azog caught I suddenly had no direction to go. I stopped leaving the house, stopped talking to people. Until my sister showed up and dragged me away to the psych ward at East City hospital.’ He gestured across the park.

                ‘They diagnosed me with bipolar disorder. I was institutionalized for a year before I could function ‘normally’ again. So I wouldn’t fall into the same cycle Dís and I took her children and left for Ered Luin, and tried to be useful. That was forty years ago. It may not sound particularly appealing to you, but that is my ‘normal’ now.’

                The silence dragged on as Bilbo genuinely had no idea what to say, and Thorin added, voice dripping sarcasm, ‘If you expect me to start hallucinating talking spiders, just know they’ve had medication for that some thirty-odd years now.’

                ‘That’s a blessing at any rate,’ Bilbo muttered. ‘Look, I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m still on-board with the heist. If _you_ expect _me_ to run away screaming every time you round a corner, I’ll have to disappoint you, and if I do it’ll probably because of how grumpy you look.’

                ‘What, now I’m grumpy?’

                Bilbo sent him a disbelieving look. ‘Well,’ he said deliberately. ‘You sure don’t look _jolly_.’ The mental image alone was enough to make him snicker, for which he only received a stoic look in return.

                Still chuckling, Bilbo stood up from the bench. ‘Alright, alright. I’ll stop. And now you’re going home, or to safehouse number forty-seven, or whatever. Seriously, what kind of an idiot decides to go for a walk with a concussion?’

                ‘And an idiot as well,’ mused Thorin. ‘If I stick around long enough you’ll probably find all manner of insulting things to say to me.’ He paused. ‘Actually the cracked ribs were more of a problem.’

                ‘You walked here with _cracked ribs?’_

‘I think one of them may be broken, actually.’

                Perhaps honesty, Bilbo thought, wasn’t an all-bad characteristic to have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please know that I am in no way an expert, nor have I experienced mental illness. I did do my research, but if how I portray Thorin is inaccurate, problematic or insulting, please call me out on it so that I can do better. As a non-neurotypical person I know it really sucks when people don't put in the effort to get your experience right.
> 
> I think that in a contemporary setting, Thorin and his grandfather would have been diagnosed with some sort of mental disorder, rather than just having to live with the label of being 'gold-mad'. In a contemporary setting, they might also have had the support and knowledge necessary to live pretty 'normal' lives. (I don't like using that word in any context but it's the only one I can think of.) 
> 
> I usually don't quote songs in my stories, but this particular one always makes me think of Thorin (and by extension the Tolkien canon) so I left it in.


	11. By the prickling of my beard, something mundane this way comes

The quality of safe-houses, Bilbo thought, was definitely improving.

                It was the day after and he stood outside an average-looking house in the residential area of the inner city – the place where he’d dropped Thorin off the night before after telling him off for very nearly causing himself internal bleeding. He walked up the path and rang the doorbell, which had a slightly tinny quality suggesting Bofur hadn’t yet had the chance to fiddle with it, and waited for an answer.

                The dwarf that opened the door was one he didn’t recognize, with a steady gaze but an air of friendliness and a certain amount of dignity that was somehow familiar. Before Bilbo could greet him, a smile spread over the dwarf’s face. ‘You must be Bilbo Baggins.’

                ‘Yes. Sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met?’

                ‘You’ll know me as Fili and Kili’s mother. You can call me Dís.’

                ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Then his subconscious kicked him, and he did a double-take on the beard and general stockiness. ‘Come again?’

                ‘Hah, haven’t seen that look in a while. Do come in, we’re about to have lunch.’

                Wondering if he was ever going to stop being surprised in the company of dwarves, Bilbo followed, neatly hanging up his coat in the rather messy front room, and from there into the living room, packed to bursting with the company. The house was quite a bit larger than his smial, but they seemed to have the talent of filling every space they entered, unlike Bilbo himself, who somehow always became so much background.

                It was a rather odd sight, or at least an unexpected one, he had to admit. By the television, Fili and Kili were playing some kind of a video game (a subject on which Bilbo treasured his ignorance), Ori sitting on the sofa next to them, oblivious with his nose in a book. Around the dining table Nori, Dori, Óin and Dwalin were playing cards for higher stakes than seemed practical, especially considering pile of chips and smug expression on Nori’s face. Over by the balcony, Bifur and Bofur were listening to the radio broadcast of today’s golf match, commenting dryly in dwarfish, Balin next to them, but quiet. He could make out Glóin and Bombur in the kitchen, cooking something that involved a lot of loud clanging and the occasional swearword. And in the middle of this cacophony of people sat Thorin, smoking his pipe. All together it was almost… domestic.

                Dís tsked, and strode over to him, grabbing the pipe from his hands, eliciting indignant protest. ‘Be quiet. Óin said no smoking until your ribs have healed.’ Thorin frowned, but said nothing.

                ‘Bilbo! Thank Mahal,’ called Bombur from the kitchen. ‘Glóin keeps trying to ‘help’ and he’s already managed to burn water three times. Give us a hand, will you.’

                Unable to say no, Bilbo was sequestered into the role of assistant cook, and given a lightning education in dwarfish cuisine, which was generally the sort that stuck to your ribs and made it hard to stand up after a meal. Then, halfway through making the gravy, Bombur leaned in and whispered, ‘Thanks. You know, for saving him.’

                ‘Don’t mention it.’

                ‘No, really. Thank you.’

                It became a sort of loop. From time to time, one of them would sidle up to him and express a varying level of thankfulness, ranging from Dwalin’s slight nod, to Fili and Kili’s bone crushing group hug. It made Bilbo both cringe internally, feeling like he really didn’t deserve all this fussing, and also gloat smugly. Thorin had better be aware of how his kidnapping had rattled them.

                And so he found himself sitting down for lunch with more than half a dozen dwarves, this time voluntarily, content to only listen to their conversations until Nori dragged him into an argument about the perks of diamond cutters while housebreaking.

And the feeling of being a part instead of apart stole over him so gradually he didn’t even notice it arrive, and would later wonder whether there had been a single discernable moment, or simply a gradual fact of existence.

                He had asked Bombur whether there would be any planning, but apparently today was strictly R&R on the request of everyone, with the apparent exception of Thorin (although Bilbo was pretty sure that was just for the sake of appearance.)

                Nevertheless, there was still security to worry about, and he found himself being dragged to look at security footage with Dís, who reminded him of Lobelia only in her talent of getting people to agree with whatever she was saying.

                ‘What security measures do you have besides CCTV?’ He asked, as she scrolled through the front gate feed on the screen.

                ‘Motion sensors around doors and windows, with a timed security code - which did cause some problems the first week after we set it up but cats mostly avoid this place now. Electric door locks as well. Security codes at the gate and doors which are timed to turn on after ten p.m. or whenever the house is empty. Normally I would have cancelled the mail, but it could call unnecessary attention to us and in any case the postman only brings the occasional newspaper and spam mail if he can be bothered.’

                ‘And the house? Is it safe?’

                ‘It used to belong to a relative. You know the old adage; no dwarf will live in a house they didn’t build themselves. There are a couple of hidden exits, as well.’

                Bilbo nodded along, wondering if he should ask about the matter of the beard, but she got there before him. ‘Go on, ask.’

                ‘Sorry?’

                ‘You want to know how someone with a beard and, not to put a fine point on it, looks like every other dwarf you’ve ever seen can have the title of ‘mother.’’

                Bilbo felt his ears redden. ‘I didn’t want to presume anything. Or reveal my own ignorance, it seems.’

                Dís shrugged. ‘At least you admit to it, which is a start. To answer the question you didn’t ask with another question, have you ever heard of a man called J.R.R. Tolkien?’

                ‘Vaguely? Isn’t he the one who said –‘

                ‘Only thirty percent of dwarves were female, explaining why they were so seldom seen? He did. You still get points for it in Trivial Pursuit, for some reason. The point is that he was wrong; biologically there’s a pretty even split between the two sexes. Thirty percent is just how many of us decide to have children. Which, incidentally, is the definition of the word ‘mother’ in Khuzdul; the parent that goes through the hassle of making a new person. Which is considered very impressive work, I can tell you. Otherwise, ‘parent’ is a completely neutral concept.’

                Bilbo frowned, puzzled. ‘Then, how..?’

                ‘Long story short, dwarves don’t have the cultural idea of ‘gender’ or anything like it. And since the races that _do_ keep projecting their definitions of masculinity onto us, they assume we’re all male. The point is we don’t distinguish between dwarves based on their reproductive capabilities; everyone is just a dwarf and that’s it.’

                ‘That’s… hopelessly complicated. Er, but it seems impossible that this wouldn’t be common knowledge?’

                ‘ _That’s_ the right kind of question. As a race we’ve had a pretty strong stance on isolation pretty much forever, which I am sure goes a long way to explain it. It used to drive Tolkien mad, because he was a linguist and could get almost nothing out of anyone about Khuzdul or Iglishmêk.’

                ‘I know Thorin mentioned something of the sort, but it doesn’t seem so extreme from the outside.’

                ‘Doesn’t it? The only reason you’ve heard a word of Khuzdul is because Bifur talk can’t any other way these days, and if you search your mind you’ll realize you know almost nothing about our customs.’

                And she (he? They? Whatever.) was right, Bilbo realized. The extent of his knowledge was mostly in terms of cooking, and he’d only learned _that_ an hour ago.

                How was that even possible? It seemed ludicrous that a whole people could, or would, so thoroughly remove their own identity from the world. ‘But… why?’

                ‘That might be the _wrong_ kind of question,’ Dís mused. ‘And _way_ too complicated to give a simple answer to. But… Well, academics generally agree that it goes as far back as the first recorded instance of serious trading between dwarves and humans. This of course caused a huge influx of new ideas for both parties, and on the dwarf side one of those ideas was gender. They found it very quaint and rather amusing, from what historical record tells us, but thought it might be useful during negotiation. So their chief of trade, a very respected dwarf, mentioned to a Man she had considered a friend, ‘Oh, and by the way, I suppose I am what you would consider female.’’

                Dís leaned back, reached into her pocket, produced a pipe, and began the time-consuming process of lighting it. ‘And all negotiations just _stopped_. This was back when the world of men was notoriously sexist, and they thought it a great insult that the dwarves would send someone female to deal with them.’

                ‘You really know a lot about this subject,’ Bilbo commented.

                ‘I was a tenured professor of sociology at the Metropolitan University before the family lost the company. My doctoral thesis was on the subject.’

                ‘And that’s why everyone perceives dwarves as being male?’

                ‘Perhaps not the _reason_ , but certainly the instigator. They were furious when they found out how their chief of trade had been disrespected and decided that when dealing with Men they would just let them assume whatever they wanted, and get them for every penny they had. This attitude slowly spread to the other races, and when dwarves became reserved for other reasons, it didn’t get any better.’ Dís shrugged, and puffed her pipe. ‘It might have stopped at some point in present day, but considering the prejudice we face right now it doesn’t seem very likely.’

                Trying as he could to fit all of this in his head, Bilbo said, ‘So, the company _aren’t_ exclusively male?’ He saw her expression. ‘That was the wrong kind of question, wasn’t it?’

                ‘You’re improving.’

                ‘Thank you. Er, do you wish me to refer to you some other way than ‘she’?’

                She raises an eyebrow. ‘That’s not a question I get a lot. No, I’m fine with any pronouns what-so-ever. Most of us are. They’re really rather silly, don’t you think? Ah, but I’ve been talking over you for a while now. Let me ask _you_ a question. While I am very glad you kept my brother from death, I am still inclined to ask you why.’

                ‘Why is this so important to everyone? I mean, I don’t particularly get along with him, but that doesn’t mean I want him dead,’ Bilbo huffed, and crossed his arms.

                ‘Not wanting someone dead and going to great lengths to keep them safe aren’t quite the same thing,’ said Dís dryly, and with suddenly clarity Bilbo could certainly see the family resemblance.

                He gestured wildly. ‘Okay, but I warn you, I’m not saying it makes sense.’ Dís nodded, but gestured for him to continue. He shrugged. ‘Alright. a) I know he’s important to the success of what we’re trying to do, no matter what he thinks himself, b) the company would be inconsolable if he were killed and c) … Although I used to think I knew what kind of person I am… Now I’m not so sure. But I know what kind of person I want to be, and such a person wouldn’t sit idle if they could help someone whose life was in danger.’

                The spark was going out in Dís’ pipe, but she didn’t seem to mind. Instead, she smiled, and said, ‘It seems Gandalf knew what he was doing when he picked you, Bilbo Baggins.’

 

***

It was evening, and Bilbo was baffled at how quickly time seemed to have passed. The company had settled down after dinner (which was even larger and louder than lunch) to not-so-quiet conversation over a pint or two. By the couch, Dís was fussing over her sons, not having seen them for almost a month, and they were bearing it with the embarrassed indulgence of offsprings everywhere.

                ‘Mum, you’re pulling at my hair,’ Kili complained, as she re-did his braids.

                ‘It’s your own fault for not taking better care of it,’ she said primly, deftly tying one braid and starting on another.

                ‘It’s not! I’m just bad at doing my own hair and Fili’s rubbish at doing anyone else’s.’

                ‘Am not!’

                ‘You are, admit it.’

                Dís shrugged. ‘Be a dear and do your uncle’s, then.’

                Thorin’s look was so old-fashioned it practically had fossils in it. ‘Dís, I am not an invalid. I can braid my own hair.’

                ‘Shut up, Thorin.’

                ‘That’s something not a lot of people get to see,’ Balin said to Bilbo a while later in his seat by the window, sipping his beer.

                ‘What is?’

                ‘It’s customary for family members to groom each other’s hair. But not around outsiders.’ His meaning was clear. _We’re giving you a chance, Halfling. Don’t waste it._

Over by the radio, an apparently positive development made Bifur cheer, then begin to sing who knew what in a deep, resonant voice, Bofur joining him in a lighter tone.

                Glóin, who had been up until now divesting everyone at the card table of their previous earnings, shook his head emphatically. ‘You’ve got the lyrics all wrong!’ As he joined in in a different rhythm, there was a chorus of complainants.

                ‘They were singing the chorus, you daftie!’

                ‘You’re running the tempo, try to keep up!’

                ‘You lot are rubbish at harmonizing!’ The rising cacophony of voices finally became something with a recognizable tune, and drifted out the open window into the darkness of the back yard, where it joined the chorus of the city, until it was almost impossible to distinguish.

Well, unless you knew the beat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The headcanon on dwarven gender politics was stolen from an ingenious tumblr post I swore to favourite, and then immediately lost (if you run into it, please let me know so I can credit them!)  
> It never made sense to me that only a third of the dwarves were female and this is basically why: http://cohobbitation.tumblr.com/post/60450187793/dwarves-and-sex-ratios  
> I do think dwarves have some sexual dimorphisms that are pretty obvious (but irrelevant) to them, but most people tend to just look at the beards and assume 'Yup, definitely a dude.' I also assume that hierarchy is not based primarily on gender as it tends to be in our culture, but on age/experience.  
> Writing Dís was absolutely the most fun part of this chapter (I wish she had a canon appearance, because I've yet to run into her in fanfic where she isn't a badass. Of course, knowing how she ends up losing her ENTIRE family, it might be best for all involved that she doesn't make an appearance.)  
> I do not include Frerin in this story, since he died so young at Azanulbizar that he didn't really influence the plot, and because the Tragic Backstory TM already had a ridiculously high death toll.
> 
> Finally, what does an author have to do to get a review around here? Is it dancing? I can dance! In fact, I'm doing it right now as I write this. I mean, you can't see it, but there are some serious moves going down. I might even bring in some extras and choreograph the whole thing.
> 
> (P.s. And The Professor himself is definitely a cosmological constant. No-one with such advanced pipe-smoking skillz could ever be tethered to just one universe.)


	12. SDCC (Some Dastardly Contrived Coincidence)

The thing about telling yourself not to be nervous, thought Tauriel, was that it was as useful as setting fire to a flaming house.

                About three fourths of it was the general sort of excitement you always feel at a con – the fascination of the dealers’ alley, the costumes, ranging from absolutely horrible to impossibly cool, the hope of seeing your idols preform and sign and maybe even talk to you. But most of all, it was the people. Generally, it was a pleasant kind of nervousness.

                This time around she also didn’t have to deal with the extra stress of paying for a hotel room, potentially sharing it with four other people she barely knew, although the stampede in the elevators came a close second. To say nothing of creepers (although here security was pretty good, so they generally got kicked out soon enough.)

                But the remaining twenty-five percent was her wondering whether she would meet any of the people she had (for the exception of one) only talked about through teamspeak and message boards. She had already run into Adelard (who really did wear glasses, but whose real name was apparently Keith), who only had a day pass and had too much stuff to buy to waste time talking to her. She knew assassin-queen had a stall in the dealers section and for all she knew Bob might be an alien or a spambot.

                Then there was TheCunningBowman.

                With a sudden start she realized she hadn’t actually asked him his name. Then again, he hadn’t asked for hers. It had been a very confusing few minutes. Or he’d lost interest in meeting her after that little episode of having his drunk cousins assault her staff. Oh, well.

                They said pride was a fatal flaw, but that was still what she felt whenever she caught a glimpse of her costume in a mirror or window. She’d made it herself from scratch, and it had taken weeks to find a fabric that wasn’t the cheap, shiny sort they used in the costumes sold online. If she said she didn’t preen just a little bit every time she got a compliment on it, she’d be lying.

                Let’s see… assassin-queen - or, if you wanted her actual name, Gunnlaug – said she would be selling her merchandise in the third floor, _probably_ fourth stall on the right.

                In the end, it was the seventh on the left (no-one could say con planning was a perfect system), with Gunnlaug turning out to be a short, blond human with a handshake like a vice. But Tauriel hadn’t been the only one idea of finding her; the dwarf from a few days ago was there as well, chatting animatedly with Gunnlaug. He seemed mildly embarrassed, but greeted her with a ‘Hi,’ then gazed nervously back at the saleswoman as if hoping for her to dictate the line of conversation.

                This proved no problem, as Gunnlaug could talk a mile a minute when she wasn’t massacring hoards of pixels, and managed to persuade both of them to buy something off her stall.

                But eventually they were left alone as she went to harass the manager for more space for her stall, and in the awkward silence, Tauriel realized she _still_ didn’t know his name. And, worse still, it was past the acceptable time limits for her to ask. Reminding herself social interaction really wasn’t as scary as she had thought as a teen, she said, ‘So, did you get home okay?’

                ‘Hm? Oh, yeah. Yeah, it was fine.’

                More silence.

                ‘And, uh, what did your boss say?’

                Tauriel shrugged. ‘He lost interest after I told him there hadn’t actually been a security breach.’ And then he’d made several unflattering, but veiled remarks on the subject of dwarves, but she kept that to herself.

                ‘Oh. Okay.’

                The silence stretched, until Tauriel sighed, and said, ‘Alright. Let’s start from the beginning.’ She offered him her hand. ‘Hello, I’m Tauriel. I’m a gamer, general nerd and we’ve sort of known each other for almost two years. I think awkward is behind us, don’t you?’

                He laughed. ‘Hi. I’m Kili, your friendly neighbourhood geek. It’s nice to meet you.’

                ‘Want to hang out since we’re both here?’

                ‘What do you have in mind?’

                ‘I hear there’s an MMORPG animation panel on the second floor in half an hour.’

                ‘Yes _please_.’

                In the end, it wasn’t any more complicated than all that.

***

No-one knows exactly how this happens, but at every con ever held, there will be at least one karaoke machine. And by the end of the night there will always, _always_ be three people minimum singing along to the theme song of some campy sci-fi show that got cancelled at least ten years ago.

                Apparently this time around it was them. Exhausted, but in a good way, Tauriel sank into a nearby chair, Kili soon following her example. As she got her breath back, she said, ‘You know, I keep telling Legolas to come with me to these things, but he never does. I think he worries about his father not approving.’

                ‘If he is, he’s missing out. Your friend? Boyfriend?’

                Tauriel made a face. ‘Definite no to the second one. We’ve known each other since forever. It’s just not in the cards.’ A memory resurfaced, and she gave a wholly undignified snort. ‘There was this one time, though, when we were younger, and his dad somehow got it into his head that I fancied him – Legolas, not his dad. I mean, eurgh – and he would just randomly appear every time we were hanging out thinking he was being subtle and sending me this look saying _‘You’re not good enough for my son.’_ He stopped after he almost fell out of a tree, though.’

                Kili laughed, and Tauriel smiled. ‘What about you? No girlfriend? Boyfriend?’

                Kili shrugged. ‘Nah. My brother deals with all of that, being the handsome one in the family.’

                ‘Why is he considered more handsome than you?’

                Kili made a face. ‘Mostly because of his beard, and that he bothers to do his hair. He’d probably be somewhere near the top if someone decided to rate the lads on a scale from 1-10.’

                Assuming by ‘lads’ he mean his cousins, she said, ‘It can’t be that easy, can it? People have varying preferences. Anyway, what makes a dwarf to be considered attractive?’

                ‘Well, the aforementioned beards, general grooming, skill, whether it’s physical or mental, social status, the respect they command, so on…’

                Thinking of the kind of hyper-political parties her job sometimes landed her in, she grinned. ‘Sounds familiar. Well, except maybe for the beards,’ she said.

                ‘It’s so weird, do you people even grow facial hair? Anyway, I’m the only one without a proper one really. Well, except for my uncle, but he keeps it short on purpose.’

                ‘Why do that, if it’s so important?’

                ‘It’s only for now. He cut it after the passing of his father and grandfather. He’ll let it grow when – when he’s no longer in mourning.’ Kili’s smile momentarily disappeared, but he managed to settle his face into at least a sort of amiable nothing.

                ‘Oh.’ She had never expected that there were so many indicators in a dwarf’s appearance to their state of mind or their social status. She just assumed they were all vain – which, considering her own race’s tendency towards rose petals in the bathtub was probably somewhat hypocritical.

                ‘Speaking of hair,’ she said, trying for something lighter. ‘Yours is a mess.’

                He looked indignant. ‘Have _you_ ever managed headbanging without messing up yours?

                ‘I don’t think I’ve ever tried headbanging in the first place. Here, let me fix it.’ For a moment she thought she’d made some kind of a faux pas due to the surprised look on his face, but then he just shrugged.

                ‘Yeah, whatever.’ He did keep very still, however, as she fixed his braids and, not able to resist playing with the hair of someone who didn’t get bored half-way through ( _looking at you, Legolas),_ she added a few more.

                ‘There we go,’ she said, once she was finished. He reached up to touch his hair and a look of bafflement passed his face.

                ‘You’ve done them all backwards! How is that even possible?’

                She scoffed, stroking her own hair out of her eyes. ‘It’s not _backwards_ , it’s just different from what you’re used to.’

                ‘Yeah, yeah. Come on, let me do yours.’

                ‘What?’

                ‘You honestly think you’ll get away with braiding my hair wrong? It’s revenge time.’

                Rolling her eyes, she waited as he did just the one braid in her hair – it was rather long to do any more. Inspecting it, she said, ‘I think I know what you mean by ‘backwards,’ now.’

                ‘Told you.’ He sat down, and opened his mouth to say something, but suddenly his mobile phone rang, and with a frown he answered it. ‘Yeah?’ What, right now?’ He listened for a while and, glancing furtively at Tauriel, answered in a hurricane of Khuzdul. Hanging up, he said, ‘Sorry, I have to go. Family matters.’

                ‘I’ll see you around then?’ She asked, rising to her feet, but he looked conflicted.

                ‘Yeah – I mean, probably. Listen, I –‘

                ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘It’s okay. It’s up to you whether you use it or not, but here’s my number.’ She pulled her card out of her pocket (in case a business deal unexpectedly came her way, and no she was not a workaholic, shut up.)

                He took the card, looking thankful, and she escorted him to the exit to say goodbye, and watched him take a seat in a discoloured buggy driven by a shifty-looking dwarf that looked almost nothing like him, but whom she assumed to be his brother on the basis of age. Hurriedly, they drove off, and, noticing a dent in the windscreen that almost looked like it came from a bullet, she frowned.

                Yes. She was definitely missing something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by the mental image of the King of Mirkwood stalking his son's BFF from the bushes.
> 
> So this is pretty much a breather chapter (partially) from the infodump and drama. Instead, you have me making jokes about cons and nerd culture. For some reason, I keep picturing Tauriel and Kili cosplaying as Starfleet officers, but that's neither here nor there.
> 
> I should probably mention that this 'verse's elves don't age quite as ethereally as he originals. Like vastly skewed gender proportions, an incredibly slow turnover rate isn't very conductive to the continued survival of a species. The various races still gets a nicer package than humans (EVERYONE gets a nicer package than the humans), so most people aren't going to pass age 300. Except possible Gandalf, but he likes to be special.  
> I imagine the elves just look the same age until the human equivalent of about sixty when (like some people) they just immediately convert to 'ancient' without passing through an intermittent stage.
> 
> Cosmological constants:   
> -Karaoke (need you even ask?)  
> -Campy cult sci-fi shows that get cancelled to the never-ending sorrow of their fans  
> -Headbanging  
> -Awful cosplay materials


	13. Now you see me

Almost having his throat cut open had not been on Bilbo’s to-do list that evening.

                He just thought he’d stop by at the safehouse after having dinner to find out whether anyone had any idea as to what their next course of action would be. And when the code he’d been given by Dís to open first the electric lock on the gate and then the door both worked, he thought everything was perfectly fine.

                Right until he entered the house and Thorin snuck up on him and put a knife to his jugular. That had been a bit of a damper on his afternoon.

                Quite a fascinating knife, too. Very ornate. It even _looked_ sharp.

                It was retracted quickly enough, but he stood frozen for a few seconds anyway. ‘Ah… We’re really going to have to talk about this tendency you have of threatening me with sharp objects.’

                ‘Apologies,’ said Thorin, making the knife disappear who knew where. ‘I didn’t know it was you.’

                ‘Well,’ said Bilbo, with patience you could have bent a crowbar around, ‘Considering that I used the code to get in _should have been a clue._ ’

                ‘I was watching the security feed when I saw the gate open,’ said Thorin, ignoring his obvious ire.

                ‘ _All the more reason not to cut my head off.’_

‘You weren’t on it.’

                ‘Wait, what?’

                Thorin gave him a look. ‘You didn’t show up on the screen. It looked as if the gate had opened by itself.’

                ‘That doesn’t make any sense! Could it be a, a glitch or something?’

                ‘A glitch that only cuts hobbits out of the frame?’

                ‘All right, Mister Sardonic, _you_ tell me what it was.’

                Apparently the rest of the company had gone too their respective homes, and Dís and her sons were out on various business, so they went back on their own to look at the CCTV. There, Bilbo saw with his own eyes, or rather, didn’t. ‘Switch to the cameras in the hallway,’ he said, and was almost chagrined to find that there he showed up as clear as day.

                Thorin shook his head. ‘Something is off.’ Playing back the feed from the front room, they watched it, puzzled and slightly creeped out.

                ‘I look like I’m talking to myself,’ said Thorin. He paused. ‘I’m not hallucinating, am I?’

                ‘Um… _Have_ you ever hallucinated?’

                ‘Not the last thirty years, give or take.’

                ‘Well, no use starting now, is there?’

                He contemplated this, and nodded in concession. Then he said, ‘What changed between the front room and the hallway?’

                ‘Uh…’ Bilbo looked himself over. ‘I took my coat off?’

                ‘Then go fetch it.’

                Grumbling mildly, but doing as he was asked (or more accurately commanded), he returned to the room to find Thorin frowning even more deeply than was usual. ‘What do you keep in there? You disappeared from the cameras again.’

                Going through the pockets, he pulled out his keys, his small set of lockpicks (just in case), and the strange device given to him by the mad inventor in the Goblin King’s warehouse. He’d altogether forgotten about it.

                Thorin furrowed his brows. ‘Is that a radio alarm?’

                ‘I think it may be made from the leftovers of one. Hang on, let me see if this is it.’

                It was. They stared at the device. They prodded at it. On its side was a very simple on/off switch, and what seemed like no other way to operate it. Thorin sat back, and pulled out his phone. ‘Fili? Go find Kili, we’ve got something strange here. No, he won’t pick up his phone. Yes.’ He hung up, and trained his gaze on the device. Half-turning to Bilbo, he said, ‘You realize what this could mean for us?’

                ‘Seems we might not have to worry about the surveillance cameras during the heist. If this isn’t some sort of a fluke.’

                It was an irritated looking Kili that arrived with his brother, but when they showed him the device, his interest was immediately caught.

                ‘I’ve never even heard of anything like it,’ he said. ‘Well, there was a rumour some years back that the private sector was trying for something that could disrupt laser trip wires, but that never went anywhere as far as I know.’ Carefully unscrewing the lid over the power source, he added, ‘It runs on a crystal battery, too.’

                ‘That impossible,’ said Thorin. ‘We never even got the chance to put those on the market.’

                ‘Mm, that was what I was thinking.’ Seeing the look of confusion on Bilbo’s face, Kili explained. ‘Crystal batteries were something Thrór had been developing. He only made one prototype, and from what we’ve heard, Smaug’s been trying to get his brainiacs to reverse-engineer it ever since. Unsuccessfully.’

                Thorin looked darkly smug. ‘It was the finest work my grandfather ever did. And since the blueprints for the project… Mysteriously disappeared, along with several other important documents, he will have to try for a hundred years before he gets anywhere.’

                ‘Which is why it’s so strange this thing runs on it,’ finished Kili.

                His brother leaned over the table to get a closer look, and said, ‘There’s something written on the inside of the casing.’ He squinted. ‘ The Research Institute Engineering Guild. Ever heard of that?’

                Kili shook his head. ‘What I want to know is, how did someone working for the Goblin King have the materials, or the skill to make something like this?’

                ‘Maybe he stole it,’ said Fili, and sat back. Then he squinted at his brother. ‘Have you done something with your hair?’

                Kili hesitated, and looked momentarily guilty. ‘Is this some kind of a weird human compliment you’ve picked up from watching too many soap operas?’

                ‘Your braids look weird. And if you’d just watch them with me you would know they’re awesome.’

                ‘Back to the business on hand,’ said Bilbo, interrupting them, ‘Do you know how it works?’

                Kili shrugged. ‘I mean, I could hazard a guess, but not without much longer time to take it apart, only that might mean it wouldn’t work when I put it back together again.’

                Bilbo looked at Thorin. ‘Is it safe for us to use it when we don’t know how it works?’

                Thorin hesitated. ‘I don’t know. But I think it would be foolish of us not to take this chance.’

                ‘Indeed, I agree.’ They all jumped, but relaxed at the sight of Gandalf in the doorway.

                ‘How did you get in?’ asked Thorin accusingly.

                The old man leaned his cane against the table and took a seat. ‘I got the security codes from your sister. She says not to overexert yourself in any way, I was told to add.’

                ‘I’m not,’ said Thorin sullenly, but Bilbo could see that he was breathing carefully, his ribs apparently troubling him.

                ‘Hang on, we haven’t seen you for ages!’ He said to Gandalf. ‘Where have you been?’

                ‘Not idle,’ said Gandalf. ‘I have been asking around, and have found out that there is an upcoming expo of technology at the Lonely Mountain next week. And I think that may be our best time to strike.’ He looked very pleased with himself.

                ‘Why then? It will be full of people!’

                ‘Meaning the focus will be on them, and not the vaults where what we seek is kept.’

                Bilbo looked back and forth between each of them. ‘I probably should have asked this sooner, but what specifically is it that we seek?’

                Fili raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean no-one told you?’

                ‘Remember the crystal battery?’ said Kili. ‘It’s the prototype that we want.’

                ‘Can’t you use this one?’ asked Bilbo, pointing at the shimmering heart of the device.

                Kili shook his head. ‘This one is just a small power source. The prototype is more than a battery, really. Potentially it could store unbelievable amounts of information, power anything from this tiny thing here,’ he gestured to the cloaking device, ‘To the entirety of the city centre. Perfectly clean energy, too. If we could reverse-engineer it with the help of the plans we already have…’

                ‘My grandfather called it the Arkenstone,’ said Thorin. ‘He had something of a flair for the dramatic. If we can get it back, we can effectively get the financial backing to put them into production and Smaug out of business.

                ‘So it’s a case of ‘revenge best served cold’?’

                Kili shrugged, his attention again on the device. ‘It sounds better in the original Klingon.’ Noticing the stares he received, he scratched the back of his head in embarrassment. ‘Sorry. Nerd joke.’

                ‘Couldn’t Smaug sue you for theft of mental property, even if he couldn’t prove that we stole the prototype?’ asked Bilbo.

                Thorin shrugged. ‘He could try, but if we do our work entirely within the dwarf community, he won’t be able to get at us until it’s completed, and with any luck everyone will be too eager to get their piece to pursue it too much.’

                Thinking that plan had way too many gaps in it for comfort, Bilbo nevertheless said, ‘Guess we better get started, then.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The so-called 'crystal batteries' in this story have nothing to do with actual crystal batteries. Really I just used that name because it sounds cool (and goes with how I imagine the Arkenstone looks like.)
> 
> Someone commented that Thorin seems very high-functioning even with his diagnosis, which actually comes from a lot of factors, such as the fact that he's on medication that works for him (which took a long-ass time to find and hadn't actually been invented when he was first diagnosed), although it's a part of the reason he's so deadpan all of the time (when not taking it, he'd be more prone to anger). Then there's the fact he's been dealing with it for forty years (luckily his therapist is a dwarf and so isn't, you know, dead). His manic/depressive episodes happen about once-twice a year, but are much less severe than when he first began to experience them. (The hallucination line wasn't a cheap joke - it really was that bad for a while.)   
> Then there's the fact that, despite what TV tells us, mental illness is not the single defining trait of a person. Bilbo might not be able to imagine living Thorin's life and thinking of it as normal, but that's still what it is, because Thorin has adapted to it.
> 
> Cosmological constants:  
> -Shakespeare  
> -Star Trek  
> (The 'millions of monkeys at millions of typewriters' hypothesis becomes a billion times more interesting when you realize that actually, that's exactly what happened.)


	14. Questions answered

Tauriel knew exactly the place to start.

                Halfway between the city centre and the suburbs was where you would find most of the sports clubs that littered the metropolis. Rugby, golf, fencing, football, self-defence, you name it. And then there were the archery ranges, most of them ran by elves both for traditional reasons, and the fact that elitism is the strong force of sports society. But Legolas would only learn from, and compete against the best, which was why you’d find citizens from every walk of life there, whether he personally approved of them or not.

                That was where she found him, breathing between shots as he emptied his quiver into target after target, next to a dark-haired Man with the concentration of a rock.

                She waited until he finished his round, nodded at the man in recognition, one expert to another, and then turned to Tauriel.

                ‘I’m quite sure he’s as good as you,’ she said in greeting.

                The corner of his mouth quirked. ‘Bard? I haven’t had chance to check if our scores are equal.’

                ‘Of course. His are probably better.’

                He gave a look of consternation at her teasing, and said, ‘Has my father managed to work you to death yet?’

                ‘I’m standing here, am I not?’

                ‘That’s no proof. From what I know of you, you’d come back from the grave if you had a job to do.’

                ‘Considering I have known you to sit on stake-out for three straight days, I don’t think I’ll be taking pointers on overwork from _you_.’

                ‘Touché.’ He sat down on a bench, and took a sip from his water bottle. ‘I doubt you took the trouble to find me here just for a chat.’

                ‘Sorry.’

                ‘It’s fine. What do you need?’

                She sat down next to him. ‘I need information on someone. Coincidences and strange events have been piling up and I don’t like it.’ Though some of his job was classified, she knew he worked for the city’s intelligence agency, and had access to almost whatever personal information necessary. Strictly speaking, looking into this wasn’t inside her jurisdiction in private security, but if pressed she could call it looking into potential employees.

                ‘Coincidence?’ he said. ‘You know there’s no such thing.’

                ‘Probably not. Can you do that for me?’

                ‘What is their name?’

                ‘Kili, son of Dís. A dwarf from Ered Luin.’ She told him what little practical information she knew, and at a particular tidbit he frowned.

                ‘He has an uncle named Thorin, you say?’

                ‘Yes. Is that relevant?’

                ‘I think I recognize the name. It’s not common. I have to go work, but I’ll try to find out for you as soon as I can.’

                ‘Thank you, mellon nîn.’

                ‘We don’t talk often enough these days. Promise me you’ll at least go for lunch when we’re both less busy.’

                She smiled. ‘Of course.’

 

* * *

 

When Bilbo arrived back home late in the night after yet another session of planning, he didn’t think much of the gate that is very nearly not shut. He barely wondered at all at the scuff marks on his path – even though anyone able to leave them would have to wear shoes and thus not be a hobbit. But the way his key briefly wouldn’t turn in the door lock caught his attention, and he halted outside, and listened intently for a while. First, he thought he must be overreacting, and that thought was followed by one that stated that people who thought that in horror movies always got killed within the next few minutes.

                So he entered carefully, opening the door with nary a sound, and trod on the floorboards he knew wouldn’t creek. But then he found the light in the living room lit, and a person sitting in his favourite armchair, sipping a glass of finest elven wine. _His_ finest elven wine.

                And he knew immediately that it was the now CEO of Lonely Mountain Inc. A man who would roast someone with a jet engine, if that happened to be how he was feeling that day. Smaug.

                He was taller than Bilbo expected. After all, it’s hard to judge from photographs, but he was absolutely as physically imposing as his moniker suggested. If Thorin made the room into mere background, Smaug _was_ the room, and everything in it. Even if you closed your eyes and covered your ears and thought hard about pink elephants, he would still be _loud_ , like a bloodstain across a whitewashed brick wall.

                And he greeted Bilbo like an acquaintance he had run into at a sedate gentlemen’s club, not like he has broken into his house and was sitting on his furniture and drinking his spirits.

                ‘Mister Baggins,’ he said, in a voice like the slither of sunlight over the scales of a drowsy snake. ‘So glad you could join us.’

                Us? Glancing behind him, he noticed two extremely muscular men who did not look like they would be persuaded by cunning arguments. Or understand them if they were made. He stood up straighter. ‘Yes. Well. Wish I could say the same.’

                ‘Of course, of course…’ Smaug set the glass down on the table next to him, and fingered the rim. ‘I don’t expect that it comes easy, to be courteous with those you intend to rob.’

                Bilbo swallowed. ‘Excuse me?’

                ‘It really wasn’t all that hard to figure out. Once Bolg described a hobbit coming to the rescue of one Thorin Oakenshield, I remembered there was only one such creature that would trouble themselves with the outside world.’ He shrugged smoothly. ‘Of course, she is dead now, but I figured the current problem wouldn’t be far from the source.’

                Bilbo felt his mouth go dry, and gave a few false starts before finding his voice. ‘What do you mean?’

                ‘Hm, Belladonna Baggins, your mother? Forgotten her already, have you? We had a slight run in when I first took control of my current business, and she needed some persuasion before she would stop trying to steal my property.’ The crystal in the glass began to sing.

                ‘You mean the Arkenstone.’

                ‘Naturally, naturally. You didn’t think you were the first who wished to steal it? She was some acquaintance of Thráin, I believe. But she came around soon enough when I explained how such actions might affect her.’ He gave a pleasant smile.

                ‘You threatened my mother.’

                ‘Oh, no,’ he said, looking almost surprised. ‘That wouldn’t have worked at all, I’m afraid. No, I threatened _you_. And your father. The next door neighbour. The post man. And so on and so forth.’

                ‘You _threatened_ my _mother_.’

                ‘Oh, well. If you insist.’ He smiled again. ‘And now, Bilbo Baggins, I am going to threaten – no, promise you. I know there is only one reason Thorin Oakenshield would return to this fine city, and willingly associate himself with a burglar. The daft fool has some delusions of ‘retrieving’ what he thinks is his by right.’

                ‘You had his grandfather killed.’

                ‘Mm, yes.’

                ‘You alienated an entire people.’

                ‘I try.’ He leaned forward. ‘Now. I want you to imagine a future where you do not try to break into my company. Instead you maybe, take a holiday, or just stay inside with that new home improvement project you’ve been meaning to get to. In that future, nothing much happens. You live out the rest of your dull, respectable life, all in one piece barring illness or sudden accidents.

                ‘Sounds a little paltry, does it? Well, then. Let us imagine a _different_ future. A future where you go against your better judgement and _do_ try to rob me. In this future, whether or not you succeed and,’ he gave a little laugh, ‘of course you won’t, who are we kidding? …You will live. To a ripe old age, here in your hovel, and you will live with the knowledge that, because of you, your friend’s son met an unfortunate mining accident and, tragically, died. Gimli, I think his name is? Son of Glóin? And maybe the one in the funny hat – Bofur, isn’t it? – will suffer nerve damage from an unwise handling of electric outlets while happy in is work. Then, perhaps, a car crash, felling half a dozen or so in one fell swoop. So sad.

                ‘A mugging gone wrong, and Oakenshield’s precious nephew bleeds out in an alley, far away from anyone he loves. His brother, unable to handle it, overdoses one drunk night, and their mother attends a double funeral with a face like stone. That’s when they _really_ start dropping like flies. But I guarantee you that the last of them to go will be the madman himself, and that he will curse you with his last… dying… breath.’ With a crash that seemed to echo throughout the universe, he pushed the wine glass off the table, where it shattered to a million fragments. Bilbo flinched.

                The smile, like a scar across a landscape devoid of empathy, quirked up at the corners. ‘I think we understand each other. Don’t we, Mister Baggins?’

                His voice a whisper so hoarse it was barely heard, Bilbo felt the doors of the future slam shut on his life.

                ‘Yes.’


	15. Fear and loathing in Middle Earth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lately, I have had nothing to do but write and look over my work (and continue my doubts about whether it's actually worth publishing here at all). Go outside? Hah! It's not Easter in Iceland without a blizzard or ten.

Waking up with a jolt at the hammering on his door, Bilbo very nearly slid off the kitchen chair he had been curled up on for most of the night. After Smaug had left, he had been too petrified to go to bed, or do anything much than stare into the darkness.

                He wasn’t certain how long he had been asleep, but if the fatigue he felt was anything to go by, it hadn’t been more than a couple of hours. Stumbling to the door, he opened it to find Thorin outside, and peered blindly into the morning sun, wondering what to say. Thorin, of course, was more direct.

                ‘You look terrible,’ he said blankly.

                ‘Thank you very much,’ Bilbo grumbled groggily, and wondered if he should just slam the door on him to make it easier. He was certainly tired enough to consider it.

                ‘Good thing I brought coffee.’

                Blinking fuzzily at the double espresso now suddenly in his hands, Bilbo decided this had to be some kind of a heavenly gift, and downed the scalding liquid. When he was oriented enough to see straight, Thorin inclined his head. ‘Come on. We’ve got some recon to do.’

                ‘I…’

                _He will curse you with his last dying breath._

Thorin’s brow furrowed. ‘What’s wrong?’

                Bilbo cleared his throat. ‘Nothing. Just. Long night.’ He paused. ‘Recon?’

                Thorin’s suspicious gaze turned into an unimpressed one. ‘We discussed this last night. You said it would be suicidal to even contemplate going after Smaug without doing some heavy surveillance first.’

                ‘…Suicidal… Right…’

                Not wishing to arouse suspicion before he could figure out what the hell he should do, he followed him to the car. This drew curious glances from his neighbours, who, even if they were almost used to his comings and goings by now, were not used to him doing something as strange as socializing.

                ‘What was our objective, again?’ He asked tiredly, wishing desperately for another espresso as he took his seat in the car.

                ‘Survey the movements of Smaug’s personal secretary outside of work hours, and see if we can find a way to use them against him.’

                Oh, yes. Now he remembered. The rest of the company had been assigned various other targets, from security guards to cleaning crew. Gandalf had offered to watch Smaug himself.

                _What can I do?_ Thought Bilbo. _Without me, this whole endeavour has an even smaller chance of succeeding. And yet, if I help them… Well,_ he _made that clear enough._

                They followed the secretary, a gangly Man with ginger hair that made him quite easy to distinguish in a crowd, from his house, to the café where he got his breakfast. They then waited for him to go to lunch at a bakery across from the towering stone building of Lonely Mountain Inc. After sitting still for exactly seven minutes, Bilbo got to his feet again. ‘I’m starving. Come on, let’s get something to eat.’

                ‘Is there ever a moment in which you are not hungry?’

                ‘First, we are at a bakery. Of course I’m hungry. Second, hobbits traditionally have seven meals a day if possible. I’m not about to miss two breakfasts in one day.’

                Thorin looked him up and down incredulously. ‘And how are you not spherical by now?’

                ‘Oh, shut up.’

                Getting in line, Bilbo eyed the display hungrily up until he got in front of the register, where he just went ahead and ordered very nearly one of everything. The smiling shop attendant then turned to Thorin and enquired what he wished to buy. With the imperious gaze and voice of an emperor before a wretch sentenced to hang ‘till dead, he said, ‘I will have the bacon sandwich.’

                Resisting the urge to bow in self-defence, the shopkeeper scampered away to do as commanded, and Bilbo muttered, out of the corner of his mouth, ‘You’re looming.’

                ‘I am doing no such thing.’

                ‘Yes. You are.’ Though how he was able to do that to someone head and shoulders taller than he was, Bilbo had no clue.

                Thorin almost looked exasperated. ‘How am I supposed to stop?’

                ‘You mean you aren’t doing it on purpose?’ Although to be honest it wasn’t that much of a surprise, once you realized his constant glare was actually just his default facial expression.

                They settled down again to wait the three more hours it would take for the secretary to reappear, Bilbo tucking into his breakfast and trying not to think too much about his present dilemma.

                Which, although it wasn’t working perfectly, was brought crashing down when one of the Smaug’s bodyguards from the night before exited the building opposite, and sauntered over the street. Bilbo stared down on the table in dull terror as he went and brought himself a croissant, and then left again, but not before bumping into Bilbo’s chair, making him jump.

                ‘Oh, sorry there, sir,’ the man apologized. Then he looked him straight in the eye. ‘Wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.’ And then he disappeared, like the smell of bad cologne. It would have been hilariously clichéd, if not for the terror Bilbo felt.

                Thorin, who had observed all of this, put his pipe down. ‘What was that?’

                Breathe in.

                ‘Call the others. I’ve got something to tell you.’

                Breathe out.

 

* * *

 

Sat before the company, Gandalf, and Dís, he wondered if there was anything he could have done so it would not have come to this. He concluded it would have required at the very least not preventing Thorin having his eyes gouged out by that beast of an orc, or even just plain never letting them into his house in the first place. But he found that he couldn’t quite regret that. After all, this was the most alive he had felt in his entire life.

                He tried to find the words, and it wasn’t long before someone prompted him.

                ‘Well, out with it,’ said Bofur, not impatiently.

                ‘I – that is –‘

                ‘What I believe our burglar is trying to say,’ Gandalf cut in, ‘Is that he was visited by Smaug, late last night.’    

                ‘What?’ Said Dori harshly, and beside him his brother’s face grew solemn.

                Bilbo gaped. ‘How did you find out?’ He asked, borderline outraged.

                ‘I hear things. It is what I do best, I’m afraid.’ Said Gandalf, but his face was serious.

                ‘What, and didn’t you think to mention this?’ Asked Nori, partly to Gandalf, partly to Bilbo.

                ‘I assumed he would bring it up in due time,’ the old man replied. ‘And what did he say?’

                ‘He… Promised me something,’ said Bilbo, and tried to read the look on Thorin’s face, but was unsuccessful.

                ‘Did he offer you money?’ The dwarf only asked.

                ‘Don’t be stupid, brother,’ said Dís. ‘Smaug would never offer a bribe where a threat would do. Can’t you see Bilbo is terrified?’

                Thorin was momentarily silent. ‘Then leave.’

                Bilbo stared at him. ‘What?’

                ‘If he has threatened your family, leave. Don’t come back until he is dead, or jailed, or don’t come back at all. Run to the ends of the earth if, if that’s what it takes.’

                Bilbo very nearly laughed. ‘I don’t _have_ a family, Thorin. If I leave, the outcome will probably be the same as if I stay.’

                ‘So he threatened your life?’ Asked Ori, and in the seat next to him, Bifur growled something in Khuzdul.

                ‘Oh, no. He’ll make _certain_ that I live. He did something much worse.’ Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Thorin’s patience slipping, but Dwalin got there before him.

                ‘Out with it, Halfling!’

                ‘Fine! He will have you all murdered. But he won’t be quick about it, oh no! First, he’ll go after your loved ones, and then he’ll maybe cripple you, and then he will kill you off _one_ by _one_ , until,’ Bilbo breathed in sharply. ‘Until I am the only one left.’

                There was a wave of silence that washed over them so that they almost drowned as one. Eventually, Bofur put a hand on his shoulder, and the silence gradually dissipated, and the background noise of the city sloshed back in like seafoam.

                Finally, Thorin breathed in deeply, and asked. ‘What would you have us do?’

                This, Bilbo felt, was the hardest part.

                ‘Don’t steal the Arkenstone.’

                This time, there was a succession of gasps and half-begun sentences. Thorin was completely motionless, and it was the first time Bilbo saw a look of surprise and incomprehension on his features.

                ‘What?’

                Bilbo’s voice was urgent, and he knew he didn’t have much time. ‘You don’t have to do it like this. What good will it do, any of it, if you are all too dead to see it happen?’

                ‘It matters. It matters to us, and those who have never lived any other way but as social outcasts in perpetual poverty. It _matters_ ,’ and here Thorin’s voice which had been growing louder in anger lowered again, ‘Because in the end it’s not about me, or you, or any of us. It’s about justice.’

                ‘It’s about _revenge_.’ He knew he had gone too far, but he didn’t care, not when they were obviously intending to walk into the flames as one and _damnit_ , he had worked too hard to make sure that didn’t happen.

                ‘Leave.’ And Thorin turned his back on him. ‘And don’t come back.’


	16. A promised threat

If there ever was a more relaxed businessman than the CEO of Lonely Moutain Inc. one had yet to be found.

                Smaug’s schedule seemed to never be the same two days in a row. He might decide to meet with clients one morning, or just do whatever paperwork that needed doing, or have completely casual dinners with people of note in which absolutely no business of enormous import was discussed, why do you ask?

                But he would always, always go out for lunch, to the very same steakhouse every time, and order a juicy red. You could speculate how he had yet to keel over from heart failure, but according to his personal trainer, he was unusually fit for a man his age.

                He never arrived back at his office at the exact same time, but that day, when he did, it was now _him_ who got a nasty surprise when he found Thorin Oakenshield sitting in his desk chair, looking through the quarterly reports as if he owned the place.

                Immediately, his bodyguard drew his gun and aimed it at the intruder, who didn’t even look up. ‘Annual sales have been going down for the last six years. You put great resources into advertising, but you just don’t seem able to drum up enthusiasm for your products.’ He glanced up from the documents. ‘Meanwhile, the reviews you receive from loyal consumers are overwhelmingly positive, but critics say that while your gadgets are impressive, they are completely lacking in inspiration or practicality. That leaves very little to be excited over, I should think.’

                ‘Mister Oakenshield.’ Smaug waved away the bodyguard, who puts his gun away sullenly. ‘How pleasant to see you.’

                ‘I can’t say the same thing to you. Or your business practices.’ Thorin did not leave his seat, but put his hands together and leaned forward. ‘They may not run this company into the ground, but you settle for mediocrity. Something I find infinitely less preferable.’

                Smaug’s expression did not move an inch from its draconian smile. ‘Do you have another purpose here except for insulting me?’

                ‘I do.’ Rising to his feet, and walking over to the decanter on a table in the corner, Thorin poured himself a measure of whisky. ‘I hear you will have an expo in the main hall, next Saturday.’

                ‘That’s hardly news,’ Smaug replied. ‘And not difficult information to acquire.’

                ‘I am going to rob it.’

                For a split second, the Dragon was lost for words. Then: ‘So it’s true. You really are insane.’

                ‘Completely.’ He downed the contents of the glass.

                Smaug sneered. ‘So your burglar did not see fit to deliver my message?’

                ‘The Halfling has fled like the coward he is,’ spat Thorin. ‘I don’t need him to succeed.’

                ‘You want the Arkenstone.’

                Thorin watched him with a strange, slightly terrifying smile. ‘With that, I could buy the entire world.’

                ‘And now that you have warned me, why do you expect me to let you walk out of this room?’

                ‘Because I have made you curious. And if I don’t get a chance to try, you will never find what I have that gives me such confidence. How do you think I got into your office unnoticed?’

                ‘And _why_ would you warn me?’

                Thorin’s gaze burned like a brand. ‘Because I want you to _know_ what is coming to you, and that you are unable to stop it. You thought you were free from retribution? _Think again.’_

                And then he walked out of the echoing silence, unhindered.

                ‘D’ya want me to kill him, boss?’ Asked the bodyguard, whose head looked like it was built on a slightly smaller scale than the rest of his body.

                ‘No. No matter _what_ he has, it is impossible that he will succeed. And my competitors have been getting cheeky. He and his crew of misfits will make for an excellent example.’ Glancing up at the camera situated over the door, he added, ‘Get the footage from this meeting and give it to me. Contact the second security crew as well. Have them join us for the expo. And contact Alder. I may decide to borrow his team.’

 

* * *

 

Tauriel was sitting in front of possibly the richest person in the entire city, and it wasn’t even Tuesday yet.

                The couch she sat on was ostentatiously scarlet, and clashed with the rest of the décor. In fact, nothing fit with anything else. It was as if the owner just asked for whatever looked as obnoxiously _rich_ as possible, and then wrote a check.

                Across from her and Thranduil, Smaug slid a tablet over the table, and she picked it up. ‘I have received the warning that on the eve of next Saturday’s expo, my most valuable product will be stolen from me. It just so happens that the one who warned me was the thief-to-be himself.’

                Pressing play on the video encased on screen, Tauriel watched as the dwarf, who with perfect confidence and no small amount of hatred, delivered his threat and then left without harassment.

                ‘His full name?’ She asked.

                ‘Thorin Oakenshield.’

                She would have said that Thranduil had made a face, if her boss ever did anything so inelegant. ‘I met him on one occasion,’ he said. ‘A most disagreeable dwarf. Your company used to belong to his family, did it not?’

                ‘Quite. He has some ridiculous notion that I ‘stole’ it from him, and I suppose this is his revenge.’ Superficially, Smaug seemed bored by the entire business, but Tauriel could make out a core of anger rooted in pride, that someone would dare to even _think_ they could oppose him in this way.

                ‘And you do not intend to contact the police?’ She asked.

                Smaug scoffed. ‘They are incompetent at best. No, I thought this matter should be kept close, and private, if possible.’

                Private.

                Tauriel could feel her ire build. Yes, he seemed exactly the type. The sort of rich businessman who stretched the concept of ‘professional security’ to a snapping point until it became something truly grotesque. A private law. She had seen his security people and his bodyguards. It was perfectly obvious that he did not keep them around as decoration. Although considering his lack of taste it wouldn’t have been entirely impossible.

                But, in these matters at least, Smaug was essentially her boss’ superior, and to her reply was attached her job security.

                ‘What do you have in mind?’ She asked.

                ‘I wish to catch him in the act,’ said Smaug languorously. ‘That is, should he ever get so far.’

                ‘And then hand him over to the authorities.’ It was not a question.

                ‘Of course, of course,’ he said, in a tone that was very nearly not condescending. But she hardly paid it attention, as her attention had returned to the screen.

                Putting the name aside, the family resemblance was perfectly obvious.

* * *

 

Waiting for her outside the ominous stone building, Thranduil still inside talking to the CEO, was Legolas, in sunglasses, skinny jeans and a scarf that had probably cost the same as a wageworker’s yearly income. He handed her a cup of coffee, and sipped on his own caramel latte.

                ‘Are you some kind of an ominous stalker, now?’ She asked, greedily taking a sip.

                ‘Actually, I just noticed father’s car outside as I was passing and since I heard there had been a security breach I assumed you would be with him.’

                ‘And you knew there was a security breach _how_?’ She asked. The only answer was a vague shrug.

                ‘I got the information you needed,’ he said instead, taking off his sunglasses.

                ‘Go on.’

                ‘Apparently your mysterious dwarf is not from Ered Luin, but was born in the city and moved there after the family fortune took a dive. His uncle is Thorin Oakenshield, former heir to this very company.’ He tapped the stone wall behind him.

                She sighed. ‘I see.’

                ‘What I found interesting, personally, was how its current CEO acquired it,’ he continued.

                ‘Mm?’

                ‘It seems after he became a major shareholder, the then-CEO was declared unfit to run the company unanimously by its board of directors.’

                ‘Is that so unusual?’

                ‘Frankly I’m just amazed that a group of dwarves managed to stop arguing long enough to agree on anything,’ Legolas said. ‘But if not for that, it would be the fact that several of them said that they had been forced to do so by Smaug, but later retracted the statement.’

                ‘You’re thinking blackmail?’

                ‘Or something of the sort. Not to mention that after he was made CEO, Smaug hired an entire new staff. Like, the _whole_ company, from top to bottom. That’s more than thirty thousand people, and that’s just in the city. Almost all of them used to be dwarves, but none of the ones that he hired later were.’

                ‘That is _intensely_ specist.’

                ‘You remember how it used to be, don’t you? Almost a third of the city’s population were dwarves. Then they just vanished almost overnight.’ He handed her an untitled list of names. ‘These are people he is rumoured or suspected to have been involved in the deaths of.’ The list went on for four pages, in quite a small font.

                ‘ _Why_ hasn’t he been tried?’

                ‘You know the answer as well as I do. He’s rich, influential, probably has some influence over some of the top brass and of course he never leaves enough evidence behind. Honestly? I feel sorry for whoever managed to catch his attention.’

                Seeing her expression, he asked, ‘What is it?’

                She told him about the planned heist, and her unexpected friend. He said, ‘So you think he might have tried to get close to you to get information on how to break into LM?’

                ‘Maybe. I don’t know. There seem easier ways to go about it.’

                ‘And you want to warn him?’

                ‘I have to, haven’t I? Liar or not, that doesn’t mean he deserves to die. But I have no idea where to look.’

                He raised a delicate eyebrow, and handed her a piece of paper. She looked at the address pencilled on the back. ‘Would you like to find out?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we can all agree that Legolas would be the hipsterest hipster to ever hip, (as would quite a lot of elves) should he ever find himself in a modern setting. Actually it would be quite interesting to try designating each race (and clan within that race) to a particular subculture. Eh, it's probably been done somewhere.
> 
> It has been speculated that the most important decisions made regarding the fate of our worlds are not in meetings or committees, but in bathrooms and innocent whiskey dinners.  
> Cosmological constants:  
> -Hipsters  
> -Lattes  
> -Companies not unlike Apple and Microsoft


	17. Tea and a chat

Standing outside a gateway leading up to a conspicuously inconspicuous house, Tauriel wondered what to do next, and more to the point, why she was here.

                It was not just that she felt hurt by how Kili had lied, she realized. In a long list of things she had heard about Smaug and his unsavoury reputation, what Legolas had told her seemed to reveal the tip of some nasty iceberg, and she wanted to get to the bottom of it. If that Man intended to use her as some kind of a personal hit man, she thought, he had another thing coming. She would sort this out whether people objected or not.

                Of course, there was the matter of actually getting into the house, what with the gate being locked. It seemed empty, and she doubted that those who resided there would be malleable to explaining anything to her. Probably she would have to figure this all out on her own.

                Just as she had begun contemplating less traditional ways of entry, a voice behind her said, ‘Well blow me down and slice me with hot buttered toast. This is unexpected.’

                Turning around and looking down, and then further down, Tauriel found a wiry-looking dwarf with a wry expression smoking a pipe with a rucksack on their shoulder. They looked quite similar to the slightly blurry footage she had seen of Thorin, so she did the only thing she could think of in the situation.

                ‘Good afternoon.’

                ‘For a would-be housebreaker, you sure are courteous,’ said the dwarf. ‘Yes, I saw you eying that wall. Don’t worry about it. You must be the elf Kili hasn’t told me about.’

                ‘If he hasn’t told you about me, how would you know?’

                ‘I’m his mother – I’m supposed to know the things he won’t tell me,’ the dwarf said, putting down the rucksack to enter the security code necessary to open the gate.

                Mother? Oh, of course. All dwarves had beards and thought pronouns were the linguistic version of salt on your eggs; ultimately optional depending on taste. Thank the Valar for collage orientation guides.

                ‘Aside from that,’ the dwarf went on, ‘There is actually a distinct difference between elven and dwarf braiding techniques and to make a long story short you’ve obviously switched.’ With a guilty start, Tauriel realized she still had the braid he had woven into her hair, then wondered why she felt guilty at all.

                ‘You better come in,’ said the dwarf. ‘And you can call me Dís, since that is in fact my name. 

                ‘And I am Tauriel.’ She wondered if she should voice the question, but before she could, Dís' mouth quirked into a grin behind the beard.

                'And since you're so politely not-asking, 'they' based pronouns will do.’

                'Of course.'

                Having absolutely no idea what to make of this strange invitation, she followed, through the gate and the front door into the rather messy house. ‘Sorry about that,’ said Dís. ‘The lads are out on business. Nobody here but us dustbunnies.’ Leading her to the kitchen, the dwarf put an ancient kettle on the stove top and asked, ‘How do you like your tea?’

                ‘Black, three sugars, no milk,’ she replied automatically, taking a seat in a chair that was _just_ small enough to be uncomfortable.

                ‘Hm. Figured you’d be the type to go for green, but I guess prejudice never really gives the whole scope of the thing.’

                Finding herself smiling, Tauriel said, ‘I work too much for green tea to be any good. I’m afraid night shifts lead to caffeine dependency.’

                ‘Oh, definitely,’ said Dís. ‘I remember when I used to work in the mines that the whole shift would be in jeopardy if the coffee ran out. Of course, that was before my spouse died in a cave-in.’ They sat down on the other side of the table, handing Tauriel her cup. ‘My children were only young. I couldn’t risk leaving them parentless.’

                Stunned by this sudden personal admittance, Tauriel drank her tea and said nothing. Then she couldn't resist. 'I'm sorry. How long has it been?'

                'Thirty years, give or take. actually, it's exactly twenty-nine years and four months, but they tell me counting the days is no use.'

                'I cannot imagine such advise being much help,' she replied. If dwarves were anything like elves, being acutely aware of the passage of time was about as easy to remove as your sense of equilibrium. It was one problem Men didn't seem to be troubled by.

                'Well, that's not what advice is for, is it? At best it's an attempt to acknowledge the problem along with your inability to solve it, at worst it's for passing on so you don't have to follow it yourself.'

                'That's one cynical way of looking at it.'

                ‘Is it? Oh, well, I try.' Then, clapping their hands as if to dismiss the earlier part of the conversation, Dís went on. 'That should be enough bonding, don’t you think? Why did you come to find us?’

                Searching for the right words, she decided the best path would be honesty. ‘You intend to steal from the CEO of Lonely Mountain Inc. As I have been recruited on security, officially that must mean I should stop you.’

                ‘And unofficially?’

                ‘I do not wish to act rashly. I need more information before I decide what to do.’

                Dís grinned. ‘That’s an elfish answer if I ever heard one. So you wish to hear the criminals’ side of the story?’

                ‘You aren’t a criminal until you have committed a crime. Even then, that is for a judge and jury to decide.’

                ‘I know that somewhere in my old self, I might find a voice that univocally agrees with you. But you see, we didn’t get a judge and jury when we needed them the most.’ Dís put their cup down. ‘Instead, we fell helpless into poverty and were forced to leave the place where we were born. And though some of it I will accept the blame for, I will not compromise on the fact that it cost me half my family.’ Their gaze was like steel. ‘First went my grandfather, his house burned down by the hand of an assassin, second my father by his own, and third my spouse, buried under Ered Luin and I hope every day that they were the last. Maybe it is only in one of these cases where Smaug commanded it, but I will still put the responsibility on him for every single one.’

                ‘I’m certain that he won’t stop there,’ said Tauriel, and she realized she was telling the truth. ‘I am afraid he will try to go after you.’

                Dís smiled strangely. ‘Oh, he has already made that clear. Which is why we must do it. I see the disbelief in your eyes, elf, but unless we stop him, he will do it anyway, because that's the kind of person he is. And I will fight tooth and nail before I let that happen.’ Looking into the depths of their teacup as if it contained a vast ocean, they said, ‘I believe that in this case we have only one relevant question to answer. How far are we willing to go for our family?’

                The front door opened, and the house filled with a tsunami of voices, footsteps and exclamations. ‘Anyone home?’ called one voice.

                ‘We have company,’ replied Dís, and one set of footsteps trailed to the kitchen, until anther dwarf was standing in the doorway. Tauriel recognized him (and now she put a question mark to that assumption) as the ginger one who had stolen the toaster, and smiled politely. He froze.

                ‘Errr…’

                ‘Nori, please let Kili know a friend of his is waiting for him,’ said Dís. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ they said, seeing the look of doubt on Tauriel’s face. ‘Dwarf braids also have very distinct meanings each.’

                Eventually, the nervous expression of Kili rounded the corner, and settled on her. ‘Um. Hi.’

                ‘Hello.’

                Another voice detached itself from the clamour in the hallway and drifted into the kitchen along with its owner. ‘Hey, Kili, do you know where I left my second largest throwing knife – woah!’ Catching a look of Tauriel, he stared first at her, then at his brother, then repeated the process. Then: ‘You _didn’t_.’

                ‘Manners, Fili,’ said Dís, drinking the last of their tea. ‘Now let us give them some peace to talk. Come on.’

                ‘But –‘

                ‘But me no buts. Come on.’ Together, they left, Fili still sneaking glances back at them.

                They were silent a while. ‘I like your mother,’ Tauriel said.

                Kili looked surprised. ‘Really?’

                ‘And you lied to me. And probably broke into the place where I work.’

                ‘I did. I’m sorry.’

                ‘How much?’

                ‘Uh, when the lads pretended to be drunk to buy Bilbo time to leave. That was a lie. But I really didn’t know you worked there,’ he added hurriedly. ‘I was just as surprised as you were. I never told anyone that I knew you.’

                Thinking this over, Tauriel said, ‘I am not happy that you lied, although I can understand why.’

                ‘I really am sorry.’

                ‘That’s enough for now. Kili, you are risking your life doing this. You all are.’

                He only nodded. ‘I know.’

                She felt a flash of anger. ‘And you think this is any way to die?’

                ‘Don’t you?’ Sighing, and scratching the back of his neck, he said, ‘Tauriel, I have no intention of dying, but I also have no intention of rolling over and let Smaug do as he wishes. Especially if he has any intentions towards my family.’

                ‘I’m sure your mother and your brother –‘

                He shook his head. ‘It’s not just them.’ Turning slightly towards the noise coming from the living room, he said, ‘They are all my family. I won’t leave them behind, nor they me.’ His voice grew grim. ‘He had my great grandfather burnt alive. It’s… I don’t know how it is with elves, but for us, burning the dead is just about the worst thing you can do.’

                She granted this the silence it deserved. ‘Then find another way. Have him prosecuted for his crimes.’

                ‘Uncle tried for years. He wasn’t the only one. It never worked, it won’t suddenly do so now. The only possible way we could make anything stick would be with a full signed confession, and I’ll kiss a goblin before _that_ happens.’

                She sighed, and laid hand on his shoulder. ‘I will be very disappointed in you if you are not careful, mellon nîn.’

                He gave a crooked grin. ‘I will try.’

                Later, as she stepped out the front door past half a dozen astounded dwarves, she was stopped at the gate by one of them calling out to her. ‘Hey, Lanky!’ Fili had followed her, and caught her at the gate. ‘Be careful,’ he said. ‘Smaug will be hyper-aware of any treachery.’

                ‘What makes you think I’m not about to leave to report you to the authorities?’

                He shrugged. ‘Mother likes you, and he's a terribly good judge of character. And I’ve just got a feeling.’ He looked her squarely in the eye. ‘I think you have decided that Smaug is the bigger monster to slay, and you can deal with a ragtag group of troublemakers like us later.’

                ‘Hm. We’ll see.’

                As she left through the gate, he called out after her, ‘Nice braid, by the way!’

                Dwarves, she decided, were an insolent bunch.

* * *

 

                Legolas picked up half-way through the third tone. ‘Yes?’

                ‘I need you to tell me who the attorney acting for Thorin Oakenshield was.’

                ‘Hello to you, too. Sorry, he’s been dead for some time. Natural causes, for once. But I know someone who might be able to help.’

                ‘Who?’

                ‘His son. In fact, you’ve met him.’

* * *

 

Even now as evening drew in, there were still people at the archery range when Tauriel arrived, and made her way through the small crowd of people still practicing. When she found the one she was looking for, he did not react immediately when she addressed him.

                ‘Are you Bard?’

                He released an arrow from his bow. ‘Who’s asking?’ He said.

                ‘I am Tauriel. I work for Mirkwood Enterprises. I understand that your father was the prosecutor in several lawsuits against the current CEO of Lonely Mountain Inc.’

                He was silent a moment. ‘Yeah?’

                ‘What do you know about it?’

                ‘Why do you want to know?’

                ‘Because I want him brought to justice.’ Her own answer surprised her. It really was that simple, and that complicated.

                There was a pause, and then Bard lowered his bow, and looked at her incredulously. ‘Do you have some sort of a death wish, lady?’

                ‘Just a very clear perception of wrong and right, Mister Bard.’

                ‘Drop the ‘mister’. Honorifics give me hives.’ Putting his bow down, he said, ‘I took over my father’s law firm after his death. We have complete records of every case we have worked. But I don’t see why I should hand that information over to you.’

                ‘From what I hear, your father did not give up on the case voluntarily.’

                Bard jeered. ‘Of course he didn’t. He was too stubborn to do anything of the sort. At least until Smaug ‘persuaded’ him.’

                ‘He seems to have done that to a lot of people.’

                ‘Ha! I wouldn’t be surprised if he had half the city under his thumb, or on his payroll.’

                ‘I think he can be stopped.’

                ‘Well, so thought a whole army of people before you, lady, and they were wrong.’

                ‘Yes, but they acted on their own. They didn’t share resources.’

                This time, he really looked at her. ‘And even then, are you sure it will work, after all this time? Because if it doesn’t, he will make the evidence disappear, like he always does, and it will end up with yet another pile of dead bodies.’

                ‘I’m still working on that,’ she admitted.

                ‘Well, there you have it.’

                ‘But I am confident. Are you a family man, Bard?’

                He was silent. ‘I suppose I am.’

                ‘Do you wish for your family to live under the threat that if, maybe, just maybe, they take one wrong step, they are at the mercy of a man with all the empathy of a snake?’

                Slowly, the other archers began to leave, some for dinner, others for work, or company, or other appointments. The darkness gathered, but was held at bay by the city lights for the moment, and Bard looked in contemplation up at the blackness.

                ‘What are you thinking?’

                ‘Let me show you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I take some pride in the fact that even with a source material devoid of women, this story still manages to pass the Bechdel test using characters that are more or less canon.
> 
> I kind of wished I could have given Bard a bigger role, but then I realized he would have demanded his own character arc, and I just didn't have time for that.


	18. Cornered

It was the opening day of the prestigious and all-encompassing media event that was the Lonely Mountain Tech Expo, and the cavernous stone building was _full_ of people.

                There were investors, slinking through the crowd with their noses in the air; stockbrokers, their conversations geared toward casual subjects but their eyes trained to catch every indicator of a good or bad business opportunity; engineers curious to marvel at the most recent endeavours in contemporary technology; journalists cuing for a word with the so-called ‘notable’ guests; paparazzi hoping to catch a glance off this or that figure of import deep in discussion with another so that they could snap a photo and then make baseless speculations as to the content of the conversation. They crowded into the enormous main hall, whose enormous iron-bound doors had been opened wide to allow them passage. Closed, they could stop an angry mûmak, although given their status as an endangered species, people might feel prompted to let one through in any case.

                This was not just a place to show off the engineering victories of only the host; every company of any note had their best piece on display, and calculating the net value of the lot would be virtually impossible. In the middle of the room, corded off and surrounded with motion sensors, was the Arkenstone, in a case of bulletproof and heat-resistant glass and stainless steel casing, bolted to the floor. The surface of the crystal power source shimmered, and it was surrounded by a group of fascinated techies, muttering amongst themselves as if they were in a house of worship.

                There were also the security guards, like dark, well-suited monoliths of personhood among the glittering crowd, and if not for them, the event might have reminded you of a traditional carnival or circus, where nothing you see is really real.

                And continuing with that metaphor - at the hub of things you might find the ringmaster, clad in an immaculate scarlet suit, cigar in hand, making the kind of polite, greasy conversation expected of him, but always, always on guard.

                Now, he tilted his head towards his head of security; a thick-set Man with a head like a golfball, and a constant expression of deep distrust for everything and everyone. ‘Have you… Noticed anything?

                The man shook his head, and crossed his arms, which were like a couple of cannons. ‘Nothing whatsoever.’

                ‘You have eyes on every dwarf that enters the building?’

                ‘Of course. There hasn’t been one yet, though.’

                Smaug smiled, satisfied, and turned to the elven head of security standing beside him, watchful eyes on the crowd.

                ‘And are our security measures up to your standards, Captain?’

                She nodded. ‘Although I would prefer having access to the security footage in real time.’

                ‘I do not think it is really necessary; you inspected my systems and I have many eyes watching as it is.’

                ‘I often notice things that people miss.’

                He smiled. ‘I have no doubt you do.’

                The walkie-talkie at Golfball-head’s belt beeped, and he brought it to his face. ‘Yes?’

                ‘ _bzzt_ _Suspect X has been spotted by the drinks table. What are your orders?’_

Smaug’s eyes widened. ‘How did he get in? Intercept him!’

                Within seconds, two security guards had steered Oakenshield their way by the shoulders – he was of course not being coerced, not in mixed company such as this. But it was very definite by the sound of his footsteps that he did not come willingly.

                Looking completely neutral, the dwarf stood before them, and said nothing. Smaug sneered, the tip of the cigar between his teeth glowing like a hot coal. ‘This is the extent of your plan, dwarf? Or is it more effective than walking through the front door and expecting us to hand you your price?’

                ‘Hardly,’ said Oakenshield. ‘I’m just here for the food.’

                The CEO, obviously not used to people disrespecting him, or at least not when he was currently unable to have them shot, bristled. ‘Don’t play stupid. I know you are planning something, no matter how ineffective it is!’

                The dwarf shrugged, and put his hands in his pockets, but it occurred to Tauriel that even then, he was somehow regal. ‘I am doing nothing of the sort. Everything that happens from now on is completely outside my influence.’

                Smaug furrowed his eyebrows. ‘What? What are you talking about?’

                It was then that they noticed the commotion growing in one corner of the main hall. At first, it was merely the unrest of one or two, then it spread as if contagious. It only took one word to send the entire roomful of people into a spectacular uproar. ‘Gas!’

                Instantly, Tauriel pulled her walkie-talkie off her belt clip and said commandingly, ‘Evacuate the hall, now!’

                ‘Not so fast,’ growled Smaug, but she turned to him with a steely gaze.

                ‘I will not have civilians endangered on my watch, _sir_. As soon as they are out, we can seal the room until the danger has passed. No one will be able to get in or out. You said so yourself.’

                ‘Fine. Do it _now_.’

                The scene of scant two hours previously now seemed to play backwards; this time, the crowd flowed out of the hall, half of them panicking, the other half trying very hard not to get infected by that panic, but hardly succeeding. A perimeter of people in black suits kept them just far away enough from the door as it slammed shut, and then a bit further than that, for the look of the thing.

                Smaug turned to Oakenshield, who seemed utterly dispassionate about this whole event. ‘Hah! No matter what people you have in there now they won’t leave so easily.’ Leaning in, the smoke gushed from between his gritted teeth into Oakenshield’s face. His voice low so as not to catch the attention of the captain who was still talking hurriedly to her squad, he said, ‘ _We will shoot you all like fish in a barrel._

                Thorin looked away.

                While only a few people present knew this, the now closed hall was airtight. Due to the pressure system installed in it, the oxygen inside would only last for approximately seven minutes. After that, for the average Man, suffocation would take approximately six minutes.

                To leave it on the safe side, Smaug gave them ten.

                Then, the security guards lined up like good little soldiers, their employer behind them and in the process of lighting another cigar. The bystanders, while at a safe distance, were there to serve as witnesses to the corpses inside and tomorrow their likeness would litter every newspaper and tabloid within a five thousand mile radius.

                Thorin, safely in the custody of the two security guards, stared at the floor.

                Smaug smiled.

                The door opened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My, this is a pretty short one, and a cliffhanger at that. Maybe I should post another one to tide you over.
> 
> ... Nah.


	19. Now you don't

The crowd craned their collective necks, trying their best to see inside. The last of the gas dissipated into thin air, and inside the electricity hummed back to life.

                First to flicker on were the lights in the centre of the room. The Arkenstone was safe still in its glittering cage, and a small sigh of relief and disappointment surfed the crowd.

                Then the rest of the lights turned on.

                Every table, every glass case, every stand, dais, and rostrum…

                Was empty.

                The silence was broken only by the sound of a cigar falling to the floor, the ember going out with a hiss.

                The there was an _uproar._ Press yelled for commentary, stock owners shouted into their mobile phones to sell, _sell, sell!_ The owners of ideas, gadgets, gizmos, howled for someone to call their lawyer, the police, or any god that happened to be listening. The guards had their hands full holding them back as the crowd surged forward to try to get back into the hall. ‘Close the door!’ Yelled one of the guards. ‘Or they’ll spoil the crime scene!’

                With an incoherent growl or rage, Smaug rounded on Thorin, who looked on expressionlessly. ‘What did you do? _What did you do?!’_ Getting no response, he shoved him into the nearest guard and hissed, ‘Bring him to the interrogation room, _now_.’

                No-one noticed as they disappeared, Thorin being pushed and dragged the entire way, until he was very nearly kicked through a door into a room containing only a single chair, no windows, and nothing but a bare, easy to clean stone floor.

                As he was forced to sit down, he glanced around and said, ‘You certainly have changed many things. This used to be a broom closet.’

                This earned him a slap across the face, which, considering the level of physical punishment he was used to, was hardly worth commenting on.

                ‘You _will_ tell me what you did or you will be in too many pieces to walk out of this room alive,’ said Smaug, and the feral growl in his voice seemed in no way consistent with the smooth businessman from minutes before.

                Thorin smiled.

* * *

 

                _‘Leave.’ And Thorin turned his back on him. ‘And don’t come back.’_

_The reply surprised him._

_‘No.’_

_He half turned to face the Halfling. ‘No?’_

_‘_ No.’ _Bilbo’s face was set with determination the likes of which Thorin has never seen before. ‘I have spent too much time and energy to make sure you knuckleheads don’t end up dead or worse and I_ will not _see that effort go to waste.’_

_'Knuckleheads?' Mouthed Nori incredulously. His brother shrugged._

_‘You pretend you can stop me?’ The audience was rapt, because the only one of them who had ever talked to Thorin like that was Dís, and she was watching the spectacle silently._

_‘I don’t have to. You can stop yourself.’ Bilbo took a step forward. ‘What is it that you are trying to do, Thorin? What was it that you said your goal was the first time we met? Not revenge. Not riches. What you really want – what all of us want – is to have him stopped. So that he will no longer be a threat to your family.’_

_‘What other choice to we have?’ Thorin spat, but Bilbo knew he has struck a nerve. ‘Whether we steal the Arkenstone to hold it hostage or for material gain, you say he will find us. In which case, we are already dead.’_

_‘There is another way.’_

_‘Spare me the sense of false hope.’_

_‘Thorin,’ said Bilbo, with the patience of a mountain, ‘I have granted you my trust. I have sworn to make sure that this quest succeeds, because in the end, I know it will be worth it. And now, I ask you to grant the same trust to me.’_

_The room held its breath. Thorin narrowed his eyes._

_‘What do you have in mind?’_

_Bilbo visibly relaxed, and took a seat next to Glóin. ‘When it comes down to it, Smaug is nothing more than a bully – if considerably more powerful. But that’s all he has. His power. If we can take that away from him, he will be unable to act against us.’_

_Near the back of the room, Gandalf’s eyes twinkled. ‘I like the way you think, Bilbo Baggins.’_

_‘And how do you suggest we do that?’ Asked Balin, sceptical._

_‘There will be an expo at the company in about a week, right? And it won’t only be his own products he’ll be trying to drum up publicity for. There’ll be gadgets worth_ billions _.’ He paused. ‘It would be a shame if something happened to them.’_

_Fili, catching his train of thought, broke into a smile. ‘We’ll steal the lot!’_

_‘All_ but _the Arkenstone,’ said Ori. ‘It will probably be the piece that’s best guarded.’_

 _Bombur raised a hand. ‘I may be missing something, but_ how _are we supposed to accomplish that?’_

_‘We have the cloaking device,’ said Bilbo. ‘It would keep me hidden from any cameras, and there’s a blessed overabundance of those.’_

_‘But you’re suggesting stealing everything from under their noses_ during _the expo!’ Said Dori. ‘There’ll be hundreds of people there!’_

_‘The secret hallways,’ said Thorin suddenly. ‘Our grandfather had them built into the very foundations of the building.’ He shared a glance with Dís. ‘No dwarf will live in a house he didn’t build himself.’_

_‘Bet Smaug doesn’t know about those.’ Kili’s grin was infectious, but Dís’ next word sobered them._

_‘But neither do we. Me and Thorin were aware of one or two basic exits, but not of the full extent of the tunnels. We might be able to get into the building itself, but no further than that.’ Apparently disheartened by this, she put down her pipe, and leaned back in her chair._

_The silence was disturbed by Gandalf clearing his throat. ‘I suppose you will all be curious as to where I have been of late.’_

_Dwalin snorted. ‘’Of late’? You’ve barely been around at all.’_

_Gandalf sniffed. ‘Yes, well, I had some very good reasons for that. This took me quite some time to acquire, after all.’ And with a flourish, he pulled out a roll of papers, and laid them on the table._

_Bofur seemed lost for words. ‘That’s…’_

_Gandalf smiled smugly. ‘Quite.’_

_Astonished, Thorin strode to the table. ‘How did you get this?’_

_The old man shrugged. ‘I told you it would pay to involve Elrond. It took us a long time to locate one of the main architects of the building, as he had faked his death twice and changed his name on a number of occasions rather than having Smaug kill him. And he agreed to draw up a complete set of blueprints of every secret hallway and door.’_

_Very, very slowly, awed smiles spread across the collective countenance of the company._

* * *

 

               

                … And in the darkened, locked hall, which stood like a cathedral deserted by gods or worshippers… If you were already listening, you might hear a sound coming from beneath the secret hatch in the floor. The sound of laughter.

* * *

 

                Smaug glared a moment at his prisoner, then turned to the two guards. ‘Go stand outside. Don’t let anyone get in.’

                One of them looked nervous. ‘Are you sure, boss? They’re howling for your blood out there.’

                ‘Yes, I’m aware of that, thank you. Go.’

                Once they were gone, he turned back to Thorin. ‘How did you do it?’

                ‘I didn’t do anything,’ said Thorin calmly.

                ‘Oh, I know you did, you _vermin_. You and your ratpack had something to do with this, and when I find out how, I will have you all turned to _ash_.’

                Thorin looked at him calmly. ‘No, I didn’t do anything, but I commend whoever did. How many people, Smaug, have you mowed through like they are nothing but trash? A dozen? Double that? I’m sure I am not the only one who has lost family to your mad greed, and for what? For a company you can’t run competently? For power?’

                Smaug laughed, and it was no longer the laugh of a sophisticated businessman. ‘ _Power?_ You jest. _Power_ is nothing but the poor man’s substitute. What I have is _control_ , and I relish every minute of it. I have ruined more than a hundred people and my friend, I am just getting started.’

                ‘You think no-one notices the people in close proximity to you being killed in so-called gang wars or muggings gone wrong?’

                ‘Hah! You think I need to rely on that trash to do my job for me? Most of the time, people are _happy_ to lay their heads on the chopping block all by themselves, if someone they _‘care’_ for is in danger. Those useless flatfoots that call themselves police can’t very well call a suicide a murder when it really is suicide, can they?’ His eyes glowed in the light of an invisible fire, but Thorin just looked at him not in anger, or rage, but disgust. Even… certainty.

                ‘You are going to burn, Smaug. And you will take everything down with you.’

                ‘Me? _I_ will burn? I have you completely at my mercy, dwarf. Pray tell, _where_ is my disadvantage?’

                There was a knock on the door, and the head of security risked his head through the gap. ‘The police are here, boss.’

                ‘What?’ Spat Smaug. ‘Who called them?’

                Even the golfball headed man looked incredulous. ‘There’s been a robbery, boss. It’s kind of in their job description. Plus the shareholders insisted.’

                ‘Fine, fine.’ He waved a hand irritably. ‘Bring them here, then. So they can arrest this piece of trash.’

                In fact, it was some fifteen minutes later when the Inspector, a frowning blond woman arrives, escorted by the Captain, who moved to stand beside the door, hands behind her back. The Inspector greeted the CEO with a nod, and he harrumphed impatiently. ‘Finally. Now, if you could take this thief out of my sight, I would be most obliged.’

                ‘On what charges, Mister Smaug?’

                He gaped at her, then managed to find his jaw somewhere on the floor. ‘Are you blind? The entire bloody contents of the showroom, you incompetent fool!’

                The Inspector barely reacted. ‘That would be somewhat troublesome, considering nothing seems to have been taken.’

                ‘ _What?!’_

She shrugged. ‘It’s all there, as far as we can tell. The collection manager, the investors and their lawyers are going over it as we speak, there seems to be nothing missing. We did have a bit of trouble opening the door at first, but when we got in, everything was in its place.’

                ‘But we saw it gone! _I saw it gone!’_

‘Funny thing,’ she said. ‘Eyewitnesses have begun retracting their statements, saying they may have been mistaken.’ Reaching for the cuffs by her belt, she said, ‘But it seems we will get the chance to make an arrest after all.’

                ‘Good –‘

                ‘Smaug, CEO of Lonely Mountain Incorporated,’ she said, ‘I am arresting you for insurance fraud, blackmail, coercion, multiple accounts of murder, and well, we’ll probably have some more once the lawyers have handed the rest of the evidence in.’

                ‘What? Don’t be ridiculous –‘

                ‘I would be careful, if I was you,’ she said, holding up her phone. ‘After all, we have your confession in full.’ On the screen, from a bird’s eye view, his own image loomed like some monstrous wraith, and the tinny sound of his voice echoed in the sparse room.

                ‘… _think I need to rely on that trash to do my job for me? Most of the time, people are happy to lay their heads on the chopping block all by themselves, if someone they ‘care’ for is in danger…’_

The CEO (though probably not for long) of Lonely Mountain Inc. stood frozen in place as he was handcuffed, and taken from the room. As he crossed the threshold, something in his expression snapped, and he turned on his heels, screaming at the dwarf in the lone chair, ‘You think this is the end? You think you have defeated me?! Your time will come, Thorin Oakenshield, and _you will_ _beg for something as luxurious as death!’_ With an enormous effort, two additional police officers heaved him down the hallway, and his rage could be heard the entire way as he demanded to see his lawyers.

                From her place by the wall, the Captain nodded to the formerly captive dwarf. ‘You are free to go, Mister Oakenshield.’

                The dwarf rose to his feet, and went to exit the room. In the doorway, much like his nemesis, he stopped, momentarily. ‘Thank you.’ And then he was gone before the echo of his words had left the chamber.

                Tauriel hid a grin.

* * *

 

                _She had spent almost four hours talking to Bard in his office before she reached for her phone, and dialled a number. As someone picked up on the other side, she said, ‘I have an idea.’_

_‘Tauriel? How did you get this number?’ Kili sounded nervous, and slightly impressed._

_‘I have my contacts. What if you could get Smaug to actually confess, on record?’_

_‘I thought I told you that’s impossible.’_

_‘It doesn’t have to be. Listen, I know you intend to rob the expo this Saturday, but what if you don’t have to? Hear me out,’ she said, as he raised his voice in objection. ‘Not permanently. I have been recruited to help with security, which means I can be your inside man. I will have access to most of the surveillance system.’_

_Kili was silent a while. ‘I can’t deny it would be a great help. Plus they would probably disown me if I said not to your assistance.’_

_‘What is your current plan?’ He told her. She blink. ‘Oh. That is… quite clever.’_

_‘You sound surprised,’ he said, chagrined._

_‘Sorry. But what if you trick everyone into thinking you robbed the expo, but technically didn’t? I mean, robbing it would put Smaug in an immeasurable amount of hot water, but if you give it back, technically no-one would go after you legally even if they found out what you did. As for him, well, he would be furious. He might say anything, given the right push.’_

_She could hear his smile over the phone. ‘There is_ always _someone watching at the LM…’_

* * *

 

If Bilbo hadn’t been so enormously relieved, he would almost have claimed the series of events to be anticlimactic.

                Hurriedly emptying and then refilling the main hall after the doors had been locked had been stressful, to say no more. Although at least they hadn’t had to worry about the security system or suffocating due to the fact that opening the secret hatch meant there was an unlimited air supply. Then before that, there had been a period of anxiety due to the fact that Tauriel couldn’t get into the surveillance office to sneak in the bug Kili had provided to give them a direct stream of every camera in the building so they could record Smaug’s unintended confession. _Then_ there had been the chance that he wouldn’t say anything, in which case they might have left off returning the stolen loot and let him stew in a sea of lawsuits until he croaked, hopefully too busy to go after them.

                But… On the whole, it had gone amazingly well. His old pessimist self, which might normally have muttered darkly about omens, slunk away quietly in the face of the gathered company. Together, they stood in front of the monolith which to them was the key to home, lost for words as what they had planned for so long had, by some fluke… succeeded.

                What could they possibly do, or say, or not say, which could communicate the true enormity of this moment, which would now and forever be engraved in their memories as they realized that their war was over?

                So they stood in silence, until a ginger elf exited the building and crossed the street, heading in their direction. Bilbo noted the grin that appeared on Kili’s face, if only briefly, and the fact that although she addressed all of them, she still somehow managed to be turned slightly in his direction. By the strange smile on Dís’ face, it was clear she hadn’t missed it either.

                ‘He has been taken away,’ she said, and no-one needed to ask whom she meant. ‘Bard is already building several lawsuits with the evidence he has, but he isn’t the only one. And once word gets out, I will not be surprised if the charges will start piling up.’ There was a general stirring among them, but the noise left a void for a question that had to be asked.

                In the end, it was Fili who voiced it. ‘So… What now?’

                Automatically, they turned to Thorin for an answer. And he smiled, and although it was a small smile by general standards, it seemed to fill the world.

                ‘For now… Nothing.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A great deal of the heist was inspired by the Two Davids arc in the show Leverage (and of course basically all the heists pulled in the Ocean movies.) I hope I managed to have it make some sort of sense.


	20. I see fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some descriptions of violence.

After Gandalf had excused himself, saying he had some things to wrap up, nothing was what they did. Or its closest approximation, at least. They walked through the city, going nowhere, with no apparent purpose. Though there was no destination, their feet seemed to drive them onwards as one. Though there were small pieces of conversation, there was mostly peace.

                They must have made for an odd sight; fourteen dwarves and one hobbit, not scurrying away or keeping their heads down, but walking the street as if nothing was more normal. People found themselves on the verge of objecting, and then wondered why.

                For no particular reason, Bilbo found himself walking by Thorin’s side, who seemed to be in deep thought.

                ‘Penny for your thoughts?’

                Thorin glanced at him. ‘I used to think that it was pure greed of me to believe this could be done. And that I’d been punished for my insolence. For thinking we could get through this unscathed.’

                ‘Why is wanting everyone to come out of this alive greedy?’ Bilbo asked.

                ‘How isn’t it?’

                He was interrupted by Dís slapping him on the back. ‘Forgive my brother,’ she said, as he gave her a reproachful look. ‘He has a penchant for being unnecessarily gloomy at times.’

                Bilbo tried to hide a grin. ‘You might even say… grumpy?’

                Dís cackled. ‘Accurate. Very accurate.’ Thorin snorted.

                Behind them, Fili craned his head. ‘Does anyone know where we’re going?’

                ‘I dunno,’ said Bofur. ‘I’m following you.’

                ‘I’m following Kili.’

                Kili threw up his hands. ‘Do I look like I know where I’m going? I’m following uncle!’ Behind him, Balin shook his head and pulled out his pipe.

                ‘You thought it would be a good idea to follow the one who has a notoriously awful sense of direction?’

                Thorin sighed, and Bilbo would have laughed if something had not caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Turning, he noticed a black van of the horribly nondescript kind roll down the street. He was about to ignore it, when a second one rolled to a halt at the top of the avenue, at the other side of the road. He stopped walking.

                So did Thorin. ‘Something’s wrong.’

                Gradually, the company came to a halt with a surprising lack of feet being trod on, instantly vary of their surroundings. Not caring that they had started to drag the attention of passers-by, they began, out of pure reflex, to look for possible exits and escape routes.

                It was only when the third van screeched to a halt, blocking off the end of the road, and the driver rolled down the window, gun in hand, when they knew what action to take.

                ‘Get down!’ shouted Dwalin, and as one, they ducked behind cars and trashcans and into alleys, as shots from the occupants of the other cars zinged over their heads, burst tires and lodged themselves in walls. People screamed and ran and tried to hide, and with great horror, Bilbo noticed a single goblin child alone on the sidewalk, too terrified to move.

                In a blur of red whiskers, Glóin swooped up the kid, and ducked into an alleyway as a bullet pinged off the lamppost next to him. Bilbo could see him whisper something to the kid, who crawled under a dumpster next to an equally scared homeless person. Then he turned and mouthed something to Bilbo. _What the hell do we do?_

Bilbo turned to Thorin, who crouched next to him as they were shielded by a small mini-cooper, and muttered the same question.

                Thorin’s eyes were darting this way and that, and he risked a glance over the hood of the car, ducking quickly as yet another bullet buried itself in the side of it. Bilbo found himself thanking their lucky stars this wasn’t an action movie, or the car would have blown up by now. ‘It’s Bolg and his gang,’ said Thorin, and his voice was raspy. ‘We can’t run for cover easily – there are too many civilians.’ He glanced at the child cowering under the rubbish bin, and his gaze turned to steel.

                Bilbo grabbed his shoulder. ‘No. Whatever you’re thinking, _no_.’

                ‘Bolg is here for me. If I can draw him away –‘

                ‘Shut up, Thorin!’ Dwalin shouted from his cover behind a postal box. ‘That doesn’t mean he won’t try to go after us as well!’

                ‘He’s brought too many goons here just for you, brother!’ yelled Dís from behind another car.

                ‘But we still have to get them away from here!’ Thorin shouted back. ‘If we don’t, someone is going to get killed.’

                A light bulb went off in Bilbo’s head. ‘The warehouse district. It’s only a few blocks away, and it will be mostly deserted this time of night.’

                ‘We all go,’ said Balin, crawling from behind a phone booth over to them. ‘Maybe we can’t run, not this time. But we can fight.’

                Thorin looked every single one of them in the eye, and found only determination. ‘All right. If they want this to end in fire, _fine._ But it will not be us that shall burn.’ He glanced over the hood of the car again. ‘But we need to make sure they can follow us.’

                Three seconds later, fourteen dwarves and a hobbit shouted a series of deafening insults at their attackers, split into four groups and legged it down side-streets and alleys, the orcs reeving their engines to follow.

                They probably should have wondered why pursuit was so easy.

* * *

 

                ‘Who are you calling at a time like this?’ hissed Nori as they hunkered down in an alleyway, desperately trying to catch their breaths.

                Bilbo’s fingers scratched at the buttons of his phone, and he brought his shaking hand to his ear. ‘Help. We’re going to need it.’

                Nori shot Bofur and Ori a quizzical look, but they were as clueless as he was. They got no further explanation when all Bilbo said was ‘We are being attacked. Yes. The warehouses down by the docks. You can’t possibly miss it,’ he added as the sound of gunshots rang in the otherwise still night air.

                ‘How do they shoot so many times without bloody well reloading?’ muttered Bofur.

                ‘There’s a lot of them, and they have a lot of ammo,’ Ori wheezed, not being the sort to exercise frequently. ‘They don’t need to give us a break.’

                ‘Everyone ready?’ asked Nori, as the gunshots grew closer. Even though they weren’t, they nodded and as one gave an enormous effort into getting on their feet and darting out of the alley again, catching a glance off a second group running on the other side of the street. It looked like Bifur, Bombur and Óin, Bombur rapidly outrunning the rest of them.

                Risking a glance behind, Bilbo felt his stomach sink down to his ankles as he caught the sight of the three vans coming down the street behind them. Apparently this had slowed him down, as Bofur yanked him forward by the arm and his gaze along with the rest of him. With the tiniest measure of relief, he saw Dori and Dwalin ahead, forcing open the door of yet another bloody warehouse. If he ever saw another one, Bilbo told himself, it would be too soon.

                Just as they reached them, the door broke open, and they rushed inside. Last to arrive was Thorin, who helped Dori push several crates in front of the door to buy them time as the rest of them looked around for possible weapons.

                Bilbo was extremely chagrined to see that there warehouse was almost empty but for a stack of crates by the east wall, and a truck by the garage door meaning a great lack of cover _or_ weaponry. Thankfully there was a toolbox and a couple of tire irons in the back of the truck. Nori pulled knuckleduster out of his pocket and handed his younger brother a cosh he even seemed to know how to use. Thorin pulled out his knife, and Fili seemed to have enough for everyone. Bilbo accepted a blade, but felt his stomach twist up in anxiety at the thought of using it.

                They could hear the vans screeching to a halt outside and the thud-thud-thud of boots hitting the ground as the orcs exited them.

                Silently, they looked at each other, and hefted their weapons, Thorin, Dwalin, and Dori taking their place by the door, Nori and Kili going off to secure any other entrances, both of them exchanging glances with their brothers as they left. The rest of them grouped together, and again, Bilbo found himself pushed to the middle. And he couldn’t help think that by the time they got to him, it would probably mean the rest of them would be dead. Gritting his teeth, he grasped his knife tightly.

                ‘I counted six of them with guns,’ said Balin gravely, a large wrench in his hand. ‘All pistols, probably six to nine shots each. There might be more, but try to take them down first, then focus on the others.’ There was no reply, but none was needed.

                Then, there wasn’t enough time to think as the door was broken down a second time and the crates kicked over and the first orc came through the door. He was immediately hit in the face full-force with a tire iron from Dori and subsequently kicked in the stomach, making him keel over, teetering on the edge of consciousness. Bilbo felt a surge of satisfaction, but it was quenched as another two came over the back of the first, not as careless. They went straight for the nearest dwarf and as they were occupied with trying to get beaten to death, three more came after them, heading straight for the company of dwarves knit together in front of them.

                With a great battle cry, the dwarves surged forward, and Bilbo found himself swept along. He saw Ori bite one orc in the hand in which he held a cricket bat and refuse to let go; he saw Bifur, who had climbed up to the rafters overhead, drop down on another’s shoulders and try to unscrew his head; he saw Fili hack and slash at his opponent with dizzying speed, causing him to howl in rage and pain.

                Together, Balin and Dwalin rushed at a fourth from opposite directions, throwing him off his feet, Balin holding him in a headlock until he passed out from a lack of oxygen. Dís, ducking a swing from one orc with three missing fingers, head-butted him in the face, breaking his nose and knocking him out. Óin kicked an opponent so hard in the groin that he went cross-eyed and didn’t stand up again.

                But Bilbo soon had his own hands full when a window shattered and a goblin launched himself through, heading straight for the nearest target, which happened to be him. Dodging the first punch, he got a lucky hit in, punching the goblin in the ear, causing to howl and Bilbo hiss in pain as his fingers protested. His luck didn’t last long, as the goblin growled angrily and hit him in the jaw, causing him to stumble.

                Almost immediately, he was steadied by Bofur, who swung an iron pipe at the goblin, yelling something in Khuzdul, hitting him in the neck, causing him to keel over with a gurgling sound. ‘Alright, lad?’ he shouted to Bilbo, who didn’t have time to answer as a gunman finally managed to pull his trigger, aiming wildly into the chaos of dwarves and orcs and goblins. There was a shout of pain in Glóin’s voice and Bilbo went cold, but then the angry dwarf came charging out of the chaos, his arm barely grazed. The bullet, it seemed, had lodged in the arm of the orc’s comrade, who was clutching it and howling, only to be brought down by Bombur and Ori.

                Then, three more gunmen entered. As he solidly punched one of them in the face, Thorin yelled for the company to take cover. Some of them ducked behind the truck, others behind the stack of crates, Bilbo among the latter. Looking to his left, he saw Nori, Balin and Óin, and Dís and Thorin to the right.

                An from between two crates, he could see Bolg, twice as scarred as he had been when they last met, stepping through the door, a heavy semi-automatic in his hand. Quickly, he counted the orcs left – there were ten, three of them with guns, and two empty on the floor, but try as he might he couldn’t see the sixth.

                ‘Oakenshield!’ The huge orc’s voice echoed through the warehouse. ‘Stop cowering behind your mooks and face me!’

                ‘Don’t.’ said Dís as Thorin moved to stand up. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

                He shook his head, and with an uncomfortable start, Bilbo realized that _he_ was holding the sixth gun. ‘It’s only good for a couple of shots,’ he said, avoiding their eyes. ‘And I can’t get an aim from here.’

                Nori and Balin exchanged glances. ‘Well cover you.’ Thorin nodded. They, along with Óin, moved silently along the stack of crates in the opposite direction to Thorin. Bilbo thumped his head against a crate in frustration, but quietly.

                There was a sound of clinking glass and something liquid. Dís went to lift the lid on one of the crates, and her eyebrows rose. Then, she turned to Bilbo. ‘Give me your handkerchief.’

                He had no time to object, as soon all his attention was on the scene of the ensuing fight, as the dwarves leapt out from behind the crates, Nori yelling at the top of his lungs, ‘Give ‘em hell, lads!’

                With a collective shout, the rest of the company sprang from behind the truck, rushing the orcs as they turned to shoot the charging dwarves, tackling two of them to the floor, but being held back by the others.

                And in one smooth movement, Thorin stepped out of the shadow and shot Bolg in the shoulder, causing him to drop his gun and _stagger_. For a moment, Bilbo’s heart soared with the notion that it was going to be alright, that they were going to succeed, and he found himself shouting in jubilation.

                But with a howl of rage, Bolg caught his gun in mid-air with his left hand, and aimed for Thorin, who pulled the trigger again.

                And there was the awful ‘click’ of a lodged bullet, and then the sound of two consecutive gunshots and a vacuum of silence as this time, _Thorin_ staggered, blood blooming scarlet in his chest and torso.

                And then the world ended.

* * *

 

The scene froze, then unfroze again, and so did time as the sound of screams returned. Bilbo saw Kili and Fili tear themselves away from the fight to run to their uncle’s aid, and watched the bullets burrow into their chests. The company screamed and shouted, but they couldn’t get to them, and as Thorin fell to his knees, Bolg raised the gun again, pain mixed with the cruel glee on his face.

                Hurtling over the pile of boxes, Bilbo slammed into Bolg, who barely grunted, until Bilbo buried his knife up to the hilt in his back. With a scream of agony and rage, the monster turned.

                But what he saw stopped him – stopped all of them.

                Dís stood on top of the crates, a bottle of whisky in her left hand, Bilbo’s handkerchief wrapped around the neck, a lit match in her right. But the flame had nothing on the fire in her eyes.

                _‘You will never touch my family again_.’

                The flaming bottle hit him full in the chest, shattering, and the flames engulfed him seconds. His screams resonated through the air and the bounced off the ceiling and raked across Bilbo’s skull like a wraith’s death cry.

                Unable to see where he was going, or to care, he crashed into the crates, which caught fire, that spread to the wall and up to the ceiling with alarming speed. And Bilbo realized that being in the same building as two thousand litres of bubbling whiskey was the very definition of a bad idea.

                The orcs seemed to have figured this out very quickly, as they were already fleeing through the door as the smoke rose to the rafters, and the company ran to retrieve their fallen.

                For Thorin, there was only the burning darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought it was over? You probably didn't; we all know you can't write an AU without the equivalent of the Battle of the Five Armies. Well, you can, but it's much more fun shattering everyone's hopes all over again.


	21. The price of conceit

Had Hieronymus Bosch been alive in contemporary times, his images of hells might have been quite a bit more mundane. A crowded supermarket at closing time in a Friday afternoon, perhaps. Or the line of a traffic jam stretching for miles because somewhere, some idiot slowed down just a smidge to get a closer look at an interesting accident. The point being, you don’t need eternal torture when grey mundanity works just as well, and is easier to clean out of the carpets.

                But among the first would undoubtedly be the waiting room of a hospital; grey-speckled walls and horrible plastic chairs, the smell of disinfectant and the sound of coughing in the distance. 

                Normally, the image would be empty of people except for one or two, but in this instance there weren’t enough chairs, or even enough floor space. Bilbo sat huddled against the chilly wall next to Bifur and Bofur, and Dwalin strode back and forth across the floor, his steel-toed boots wearing down the carpet with each step. Nori leaned against the wall next to his brothers, clearly itching to go out for a smoke, but not daring to leave in the event missing any news. And perfectly still in her seat was Dís, her face so perfectly blank that anything ever seen on the countenance of her brother seemed a mere imitation in comparison. To anyone present, she might have returned to the stone from whence she came. And Bilbo knew that if the worst would happen, it might be hard for the rest of them, but it would be nothing close to what she would have to go through.

                The fleeing orcs had been met by a team of Elrond’s aides, who arrived at the scene almost the moment they exited the burning warehouse, along with an ambulance and the fire brigade. Just seconds later, the company had managed to drag out their three fallen companions. Then the crates of whiskey had exploded, blowing out all the windows and spreading the fire even further. By the time they left to follow the ambulance, there had been little left than a pile of cinders, although the fire brigade had blessedly managed to stop the fire spreading to nearby buildings.

                Which left them here, waiting. Together. Alone.

                _Was that what Thorin had meant by greed?_ Wondered Bilbo. _Is it pure avarice of us to want them to live, more than we want anything else? We may have slain the dragon, as Bofur said, but have we somehow transgressed against the universe by daring to ask for more? Is he… Is he being_ punished _for not just settling for his predetermined lot in life?_

 _If that’s it, I don’t care. After all, that was what he did –does. He wanted to keep his family safe, so he made greed his weapon. He made everyone here his family, made them_ his _so that he could protect them, and burned anyone who would harm them to ash._

_If the universe thinks it can punish someone like that for conceit, I hope it burns as well._

At some point, the Captain arrived, very determinedly not rushing, her face pale and her hands deliberately slack. She took one look atthe silent gathering, then at the clock, which proclaimed the time to be two hours after midnight, and went and got coffee for every single one of them, passing it out wordlessly. Then she retired to stand guard by the doorway, and to wait for news, like the rest of them. Half an hour later, Gandalf arrived, his face drawn, and uncharacteristically, he kept silent as well.

                The colourless hours crawled past. At some point, Bofur took the clock down from the wall to make sure that it wasn’t actually ticking backwards. There was more coffee, and silence, and waiting, waiting, _waiting._

It was five in the morning when the surgeon, a wiry goblin woman, obviously tired, came through the door. She momentarily balked at the number of people anxiously waiting for her to speak, then said, ‘The younger ones will be fine. Mister Oakenshield we can’t be certain about – he went into cardiac arrest three times, but is currently in a stable condition.’

                There was a chorus of exhausted sighs, which under different circumstances would be cheers. Bilbo breathed in deeply and rested his forehead on his crossed arms. Next to him, Bifur slumped against the wall. In his seat, Balin hid his face in his hands and Dwalin stopped striding, and unceremoniously sat down on the floor. By the door, the Captain looked down and muttered something in Sindarin, and in her seat, Dís blinked. Then she picked up her cup of coffee, cold and untouched, and took a sip, grimacing at the taste. But she wasn’t made of stone anymore, and Bilbo was relieved.

                ‘May we see them?’ asked Ori, enthusiastically.

                ‘Family members only,’ the doctor replied automatically, and received a chorus of blank stares in return.

                In the end, they settled for Dís going to see them, as their closest actual relative, and bring back news to the rest of them later. When it became obvious to the nurse on duty that they were settling in to stay, and that any attempt to remove them would be near-impossible, he requisitioned several more chairs and at least attempted to spread them around so there would be room for other visitors.

                Most of the dwarves curled up and went to sleep where they sat, although some finally conceded to having their own injuries treated, which counted everything from scratches to fractured bones. Meanwhile, the Captain excused herself, as she had work in a couple of hours. Gandalf left as well, saying he had things to settle with Elrond and the police (for as it turned out, people did not take kindly to having warehouses and their valuable contents incinerated.)

                And Bilbo, who generally found it impossible to sleep anywhere but in own hobbit hole, blinked out of consciousness within mere seconds. The apocalypse was over.

* * *

 

                The first thing Kili heard was the voice of his brother, although he couldn’t make out the words.

                The first thing he felt was a hand stroking the bridge of his nose, like his mother would do when he was little and had had a nightmare and couldn’t fall asleep.

                And the first thing that he saw, when his blurry vision cleared, was a white ceiling, and a wing of dark hair just outside of the corner of his eye.

                It was almost pleasant to swim in nothingness for a while, but he couldn’t help think he must be missing something, so he pushed again for consciousness.

                And then everything came back to him like an avalanche – sound, light, memory, _pain_.

                But not as much of that last bit as he expected. Mostly he just felt numb, and dimly realized they’d probably got him hopped up on so many painkillers it’s a miracle he could see straight.

                ‘F’li,’ he managed to wheeze, and then his mother moved into his field of vision and there was such sorrow and happiness and love in her gaze he thought he might just let himself bask in it for a while.

                ‘Welcome back,’ she said, and he had never seen his mother cry, but she looked damn close to it now.

                ‘Hey, Kili,’ whispered a voice from his right, and he laboriously turned his head, to find his brother on the bed next to him, looking pretty much like how Kili feels. He felt his anxiety drain away, although it resurged as his memories trickled back.

                ‘Uncle?’ He asked, through lips so dry they seem like they might crackle.

                ‘He’s alright,’ his mother reassured him. ‘He’s in the next room over – he’s stable, but hasn’t woken up yet.’

                The rest of his fears evaporated, and the bed felt really, really comfortable, and he could feel himself start to drift off again. He caught her smile. ‘Sleep, Kili.’

                It was probably the best idea he’d heard for a whole week.

* * *

 

                When Legolas entered through the front doors of Mirkwood Enterprises, he didn’t go to the third floor, where he knew he would find his father. Instead, he headed for quite a smaller office on the ground floor, next to the staff breakroom. Not bothering to knock, he entered, and found his friend staring fixedly at a piece of paperwork in front of her, dark circles under her eyes and her hair in disarray, or as much as is possible for an elf, at any rate.

                ‘I know you are a workaholic by nature, but this is too far, even for you,’ he scolded. ‘I don’t know the full extent of what you’ve been up to, other than it involves the arrest of the CEO of LM Inc. And that, apparently you were at the hospital until five in the morning waiting for news on whether some dwarves had survived a gang shoot-out down by the docks. But now you are going home, and getting your eight hours of sleep and something to eat, and no arguments.’ Frowning as she didn’t reply, he leaned forward. ‘Are you listening to me?’

                Eyes wide open and pen poised in mid-air, Tauriel snored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ask me how Hieronymus Bosch came to be a cosmological constant in a universe where Christianity isn't a thing. Maybe he has flash-sides (someone else's flashbacks, sometimes from another universe.)
> 
> Comments? Please? I didn't go online for three days and it was incredibly disheartening to see I hadn't gotten a single one, even with the last chapter's cliffhanger nature.


	22. Blessed boredom

It was four days later that Thorin woke up.

                In the meantime, the company had of course been forced to leave the waiting room to go home and eat, sleep, shower and miscellaneous. But there was always someone checking in at the hospital, now that they were allowed to see them (only one or two at a time, though.) Fili and Kili were still recovering, but doing so with remarkable speed, which Bilbo attributed to dwarven bull-headedness. Dís had been practically living there, and had commandeered a bed to be set up on the premises for her to use. She was having way too much fun terrorizing the nurses and honestly, who could blame her after she so very nearly lost what little remained of her family.

                Generally, there was someone sitting with him, and this time it was Ori, who got so excited he nearly ran into the doorjamb when calling for the doctor. Thorin wasn’t awake for long, and drifted in and out of consciousness for a couple of days until settling firmly in the here and now (probably dwarven stubbornness again.) And there he listened patiently as Balin filled him in on what happened, what he missed, where Smaug was (police custody) and what happened to Bolg (mysteriously caught fire, according to the Balin, or didn’t make it out of the warehouse, according to the authorities.) They now knew that Smaug did not send him, but that the word of his arrest made Bolg fly off the handle when he realized that the CEO would probably rat him out, and decided that he would finally get rid of Thorin Oakenshield if it was the last thing he did. He didn’t, and it was.

                And so, Bilbo found himself standing awkwardly in the doorway a couple of days after _that_ , once he was certain that everyone else has had a chance to visit him, dithering.

                ‘Maybe if you stand there long enough the floor will magically turn into an escalator.’

                Bilbo rolled his eyes, and entered. ‘You’re crankier than usual.’

                ‘I’m also in more pain than usual,’ Thorin deadpanned. ‘And apparently my usual medication doesn’t work when taken with morphine, and I have missed three appointments with my therapist by lying here.’

                ‘Well, from what I hear you aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.’ He took a seat next to the bed and glanced at the tangle of tubes and monitors attached to Thorin. ‘I mean, they had to remove a bullet from your ribcage, although the other one went through.’

                ‘Thanks for that, I’m aware.’ Thorin tried to sit up further, but winced, and stopped moving.

                Bilbo’s lip curled. ‘As for the reason why I am here...’

                Thorin looked up. ‘What?’

                He very nearly had his eye poked out when Bilbo pointed at him furiously and said, ‘If you _ever_ get yourself shot like this, I am never talking to you again!’

                Thorin was momentarily silent. ‘So you’re saying it’s fine if I get stabbed, or caught in an explosion or something like that?’

                ‘That’s – you – argh!’ Bilbo resisted the urge to tear at his hair, or possibly suffocate Thorin with a pillow. ‘Injured or not, I _will_ hit you.’

                ‘I apologize.’

                ‘It’s fine.’

                ‘No. I mean for not trusting you, when you had given me several reasons to grant that trust.’ Thorin looked at him solemnly. ‘You were right. I let the hope of revenge get the better of me, for a moment. And I was generally just unpleasant to you.’

                ‘Is that you or the morphine talking?’

                ‘Probably a bit of both.’

                Bilbo huffed, and sat back, and smiled. ‘Apology accepted.’

* * *

 

                Kili was bored.

                So, _so_ bored.

                Because there’s only so long you can lie in the same damn bed without wanting to jump out the window to escape this sterile, _boring_ place. The nurses had limited their visiting hours, so the company could only visit during the afternoon, and the food, not to put a fine point on it, was _horrible._

He wondered if it was actually possible to die from ennui, and was about to suggest to his brother they go raid the kitchen, because if the staff had to eat the same stuff as they do, he might actually feel sorry for them.

                Which was when Fili said, ‘Oh, hey Lanky. Did you smuggle us some candy?’

                And he looked up to find Tauriel standing indecisive in the doorway, sending Fili a chagrined look at the nickname. Kili found he couldn’t help smiling. ‘Don’t mind him,’ he said. ‘It means he likes you.’

                She turned to Kili, and smiled back. ‘Hello.’

                ‘Hi.’

                ‘Nice to see you’re not dead.’

                ‘Yup. It’s one of my favourite states of existence. _Did_ you bring any candy?’ They both looked at her eagerly.

                ‘Sorry, the nurses advised against it.’ Seeing their faces fall, she grinned, and held up a rucksack. ‘But I did bring my Xbox.’

                The cheers alerted Dís, who was in the next room over, scolding her brother for overexerting himself, and she went to take a look inside. She found them enthusiastically beating the tar out of each other’s pixels, her children complaining loudly that the controllers were too spindly for dwarven hands and why didn’t she bring a Playstation? So she smiled, and let them be.

                When Tauriel had to leave (she could only stay for so long as it is her day off), Kili smiled the biggest smile possible. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and when she went to ruffle his head he pulled her in not for a hug, but to rest his forehead against hers. Another dwarvish custom, she guesses, and it was terrifyingly adorable. Fili studiously observed the ceiling, and when she went to leave, seemed sad to see her go, and called her ‘Lanky’ again. He was obviously not going to let go off the nickname anytime soon, and she found she didn’t entirely mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cosmological constants:  
> -Control wars  
> -Bad hospital food


	23. Your quarrel with the universe

The same day as Fili and Kili were discharged from the hospital, Thranduil Alder appeared at the ‘now no-longer safehouse and something much more like a home in which they all tend to congregate in their empty hours’. They weren’t quite celebrating; they were waiting until Thorin was discharged to do that properly, but they _were_ all there to have dinner. Bilbo was again assisting in the kitchen, because while not all the dwarves were rubbish at cooking he rather enjoyed it.

                It was Bofur who answered the door, and there was something idiosyncratic about how he took one look at the haughty CEO of Mirkwood Enterprises and his rather more pleasant head of security and said, ‘Oh, hey Lanky. Have ya toppled the government yet?’

                ‘Not yet, Mister Bofur,’ Tauriel said dignifiedly, hiding a smile, and added, ‘We were instructed to enquire here for a representative of Mister Oakenshield, as I take it he is still hospitalized.’

                ‘You’ll want Balin for that,’ he replied. ‘Come in, we’re having dinner in a bit.’

                Thranduil almost stopped in the doorway and not, Tauriel knew, because he didn’t wish to interrupt but because he’d rather postpone this as long as possible. ‘Perhaps we should come back later,’ he suggested. Read: Never.

                ‘They won’t mind, sir,’ she said, effectively coercing him into the house, and as they waited for Balin in the hallway, he sent her an enquiring glance.

                ‘I was not aware that you were acquainted with these dwarves, Captain. Are they recently known to you?’

                Wondering how she could possibly answer that accurately without implicating herself, Tauriel settled for, ‘Yes and no, sir,’ and was saved by the appearance of the elderly white-haired Balin.

                ‘Mister Alder,’ he greeted Thranduil. ‘Captain.’ He was not excessively warm toward her boss, but quite civil towards her and she decided to attribute to her assistance in the heist rather than any personal favour.

                ‘Mister Balin,’ said Thranduil, and Tauriel was once again amazed by how he could actually look at people with his nose.

                ‘How can I help?’

                Thranduil sniffed, and pulled a stack of documents from a folder in his briefcase. ‘It became apparent,’ he said, ‘In the veritable hurricane of lawsuits headed against the former CEO of LM Inc that the company went to him under questionable circumstances. We are hearing quite a lot of accusations of blackmail. The company lawyers have been going through the records for a couple of weeks now, and there has been quite a lot of discussion over who the next CEO should be.’

                Balin’s gaze was cunning, in that it betrayed absolutely no trace of where his thoughts must be going. ‘We better take this inside,’ he said.

                ‘Inside’ turned out to be the kitchen, meaning a full view into the living room and all the way into the garden through the open back door, when it wasn’t interspersed with curious dwarves, and to be honest that was most of the time.

                Thranduil preferred to stand rather than sit of the chairs that, hilariously were just _slightly_ too small for him, but that meant leaning just enough over the table to be uncomfortable. Clearly chagrined, he put the papers in front of Balin, icily ignoring the dwarves that periodically peered into the kitchen. He cleared his throat. ‘It turned out that as a company running all the way back to its establishment by Durin, the Lonely Mountain still functions according to dwarf law.’

                ‘I would have thought Smaug had changed things around,’ Balin commented, reading the fine print of the documents through a pair of spectacles.

                ‘It seems that in this, and many other practises, he did not have the necessary foresight,’ said Thranduil dryly.

                Dís entered the kitchen, greeting Tauriel. Then they gestured with their head towards the door, and entered the discussion, pushing for the seemingly futile end of actually making Thranduil get to the point.

                Glancing back, Tauriel noticed Kili standing by the edge of the broad doorway, and he smiled when she saw him, and waved. Glancing at her boss, who seemed perfectly happy to argue legal matters with a worthy opponent, she walked over to him to say hi.

                ‘So you’re finally out of the hospital.’

                ‘Yes! I have never been so happy to _not_ be somewhere before. And to eat proper food. I thought my taste buds would atrophy until they could only recognize the taste of my salty regret.’

                ‘I am sure that would be great loss.’

                Most of the dwarves by now were engaged in playing cards, not for money but for chips, although Bofur, Bifur and Ori were by the television playing Trivial Pursuit. ‘Only 30% of dwarves are women?’ Balked Bofur. ‘What kind of rubbish game is this?’ Ori shrugged, and Bifur grunted. ‘Yeah. Let’s switch to jenga or something.’

                ‘Want to go outside?’ Kili asked. ‘They can get pretty loud.’

                She followed him. ‘Over jenga? And why are they playing for chips instead of money?’

                ‘Okay, number one, have you ever actually _played_ jenga? And number two, Bilbo scolded them into not using money because Nori cheats so much he probably has seven aces hidden on his person at any given time.’

                The garden was pleasantly overgrown; none of this flat green lawn rubbish she sometimes saw outside human houses. There were no trees close to the garden walls, as they would make housebreaking easier (though she thinks that if there were, Dís would probably put bear traps beneath them.) There was one in the centre of the garden, an elderly oak, and it immediately made Tauriel feel more at home. She leaned against it and looked up at the sky through the branches, and realized she had no particular quarrel with the order of the universe right now. It was a good feeling.

                ‘Your boss sure is a ray of sunshine,’ Kili commented idly, leaning against the tree next to her.

                ‘He’s very… driven, yes.’

                ‘Really? I’d say he had a stick shoved up his –‘ He coughed, and finishes the sentence in Khuzdul.

                ‘Very smooth.’

                ‘I know.’

                ‘I’ve figured out how you broke through my security, by the way.’

                ‘You could have asked.’

                ‘That would mean I was inadequate at my job. And you won’t be getting in again.’

                He made a face. ‘I don’t think we’ll _need_ to break in again.’

                ‘Well, just in case you get bored.’ They shared a grin, and then Kili looked up at the tree with a face of consternation. He began climbing up the lowest branches, balancing precariously on one so that they were essentially eye-to-eye, at the same height.

                ‘What’s all that for?’ She asked.

                He shrugged. ‘I like high places, and it gets pretty old to have you look down on me.’

                ‘I would never look down on you.’

                His gaze softened. ‘I know.

                They watched through the back door as Thranduil painfully and painstakingly finally managed to articulate to them that, yes, the ownership of the company had essentially defaulted back to Thorin. The cheers from the company brought smiles to their faces, and a very nearly a frown to her boss’. Nevertheless, they heard him say, ‘I am sure it will be… interesting working with you.’

                Kili snorted. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’ He looked at her. ‘You know, I never really believed it would come to this. That we would succeed. We owe a lot of that to you.’ Looking momentarily awkward, he scratched the back of his head, careful not to fall of his perch. ‘Thank you.’

                She smiled. ‘It was my pleasure.’

                Fili appeared in the doorway. ‘It’s dinner in ten minutes. Mother asks if you’re staying, Lanky.’

                ‘Sorry,’ she called back. ‘Maybe next time. Is the nickname really going to become a thing?’ She added to Kili.

                He shrugged. ‘If you stick around, it will stick to you. Sorry.’ He clearly wasn’t.

                ‘Guess I’ll have to learn to answer to it, then.’

                Kili moved to get off his branch, then stopped, and gave a laugh.

                ‘What?’

                ‘I expected to owe you for all this, but now I wish I had betted more wisely.’ He made a face. ‘Kissing a goblin is definitely not on my bucket list.’

                Recalling that particular conversation, she grinned. ‘Nor is it on mine.’

                ‘No?’

                ‘No. I’d much prefer if you kissed me instead.’

                He didn’t quite gasp, and his eyes roamed her expression as if looking for deceit. ‘Oh?’

                ‘Yes.’

                ‘Well, then…’

                Which was how Tauriel found herself kissing a dwarf (a friend), in front of a whole lot of other dwarves (which ranged from stunned to amused) and also her boss (who was completely and absolutely shocked.)

                All in all, it was a pretty good day.

* * *

 

                ‘My nephew did _what_?’

                Bilbo had to admit that Thorin’s look of outrage was actually quite entertaining, and wondered if it could be caught on camera. Still, he answered from behind his gardening magazine, ‘Apparently. Thranduil was so surprised he was very nearly catatonic.’

                Although Thorin seemed momentarily smug about this, but he tended to have something of a one-track mind. ‘He _kissed_ an _elf_?’

                ‘She didn’t seem to mind. Look, it was obvious to anyone paying attention that they’re sweet on each other.’ Although that had apparently been limited to himself, Dís and Fili. Dwarves could be so oblivious sometimes.

                ‘ _I_ didn’t notice anything,’ said Thorin.

                ‘That settles it, then.’

                Thorin, who had been in the middle of getting his things together since he would soon be allowed to leave, seemed to have a very hard time with this. ‘She’s a damned elf.’

                Bilbo sighed, and put down his magazine. ‘Yes, she is. And our little enterprise would have been impossible without her, and for that reason, and also for the sake of Kili’s happiness, you should set aside your specism and personal prejudices, and just _get over it_.’

                Thorin slumped onto his bed, and very nearly looked lost. ‘It used to be that this sort of thing wasn’t done.’

                ‘It’s always been done,’ said Bilbo. ‘You just didn’t hear because people didn’t talk about it.’

                ‘But… _Really?_ ’

                Bilbo resisted the urge to slam Thorin’s head against the wall. ‘Yes!’

                ‘What did Dís say?’

                Picking up his magazine again, Bilbo leaned back in his chair. ‘Apparently she told the rest of them to stop gawking and eat their dinner. Fili found the whole thing hilarious.’

                Thorin huffed. ‘That sounds about accurate.’

                ‘Promise you won’t give them grief for this?’

                ‘I would never do that. Kili is old enough to make his own choices.’

                Bilbo turned a page. ‘Very nice.’

                There was a silence. Then:

                ‘ _Seriously?_ ’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some Kiliel. I was on the fence whether to include any shipping or not, but they were just too precious (hah.) to write.  
> Thranduil having a last name (Alder) is something of an in-joke, but kudos if you can figure it out.
> 
> Whoo boy. Only two more chapters to go. Oh, well. I'll probably have some other stuff up by the time I finish this, so at least I won't be bored.


	24. The past, unrepeated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilbo is nervous, and Thorin is a grumpier version of Tony Stark.

A few days later, Bilbo was enjoying a quiet morning (and there had been precious few of those) in his house, when once again there is a knock on the door. Expecting, but not really dreading, Lobelia or someone about as unwelcome, he opened it to find the scarecrowish old man that had gotten him into this whole mess in the first place. Wondering what the appropriate greeting was by now, he settled for, ‘Would you like to come in?’

                ‘I rather think I would,’ said Gandalf, careful not to hit his head on the door. ‘I gather tea is on the menu?’

                ‘I suspect it may be.’

                As he poured for them, Gandalf gave him a calculating look and asked, ‘Say, what did you do with that device you acquired in the Goblin King’s lair?’

                Bilbo furrowed his brows. ‘Think I put it in my safe. Wouldn’t want that thing in the wrong hands.’

                ‘Quite,’ said Gandalf dryly. ‘And that would make your hands..?’

                Bilbo tried to find a decent answer. ‘Adequate? I’m not going to go around breaking into any more companies if that’s what you’re worried about.’

                ‘Indeed I am not, but now that I have realized the origin of the item in question, I gathered that you would be curious.’

                ‘I am,’ admitted Bilbo. He took a sip of his tea and grimaced. He had definitely let it steep for too long. Gandalf didn’t seem to mind.

                ‘Then we better get going,’ said Gandalf, standing up and drinking what was left from his cup.

                ‘What? Where?’ Bilbo didn’t bother pointing out that they had just sat down. It was no use.

                ‘Don’t you remember? Today is Thorin’s first day as the CEO of the Lonely Mountain.’

* * *

 

The halls of the cavernous building echoed with every step, but not unpleasantly. Looking up at the ceiling far overhead, Bilbo wondered if dwarves build so majestically so that everyone else would feel as small as they did. But no. To themselves, dwarves were exactly the right size; it was everyone else who was tiny or freakishly huge.

                But although he didn’t find the stone walls as imperious as he used to, Bilbo couldn’t help but notice that everyone they passed looked nervous, no matter how they tried to hide it. Elvish and human and goblin and the occasional orc engineers and secretaries and marketers and IT people skulked around as if trying not to draw any attention to themselves. And Bilbo realized it was because of the new order, and that some of them remembered or had heard about what happened last time there was a new CEO, how everyone before them lost everything and they themselves acquired it instead. There was a degree of guilt, there, too. Maybe, if they had asked more questions back then, they wouldn’t have had to worry now.

                They found Thorin in the main office, which had been stripped of all the ostentatious furniture and was empty except for a desk and chair by the window. Thorin was doing something on the sleek computer on the desk, and bizarrely Bilbo had the mental image of him procrastinating by playing Pac-man, and stifled a laugh.

                Thorin looked up, and raised an eyebrow as they entered. ‘You’re both here? This can’t be good.’

                ‘Why do you assume it’s bad just because there is two of us?’ asked Bilbo.

                ‘It’s math. At any given time there’s a 50% chance either of you bring bad news, and when it’s both of you the numbers grow significantly.’ He was wearing the dwarven equivalent of a business suit, only (and here Bilbo has to borrow a phrase from Fili) a lot more badass. It was bound to happen, really, when you mixed corporate fashion and dwarven traditional style of dress. He wasn’t altogether surprised Thorin has been striking fear into the hearts of his now-employees.

                Gandalf huffed. ‘Well, this time, you are happily wrong.’

                ‘Although we could go and find some bad news for you if that makes you feel better,’ said Bilbo drily.

                ‘You will have to be quick, I’m addressing the staff in a few minutes.’

                Bilbo and Gandalf exchanged glances. The image of thirty thousand people made jobless in an instant glued itself onto Bilbo’s brain, but Gandalf avoided the subject. ‘It is on the subject of the Device,’ and the way he managed to pronounce it with a capital ‘D’ made no room for misunderstanding. ‘I gather you are curious to know how it came to be powered by a crystal battery when it had never been released to the public.’

                Thorin nodded. ‘Theft?’

                Gandalf’s mouth quirked. ‘Hardly, or at least not in the way you would expect.’ He strode slowly across the floor, settling into the cadence of a university professor lecturing to an auditorium of amateurs.

                ‘’The Research Institute Engineering Guild’ was an initiative headed by your father, Thráin. He banded together with several human inventors and associates of Elrond with the purpose of breaking down the segregation between races in the development of technology and industry in the interest of progress. It was very low-key, of course; they didn’t want to drag attention to themselves without certified success, but they managed several things that before were thought to be impossible. Of course, when the company was lost and Thráin died, the cooperation stopped. They never marketed the products they had made, as they couldn’t follow up on their success, or did not have vital information on how and why they worked; united, it seems, they still kept secrets.’ Gandalf gave a small smile. ‘One of those inventors was the one you encountered in the Goblin King’s headquarters, Bilbo, although he had seen better days.’

                ‘Considering that he tried to offer me a portable chinrest, I can’t really say I’m surprised.’

                ‘Quite. The Device was one of his inventions, which he made by combining dwarven, elven and human technology, along with his own knowledge of goblin engineering.’

                Thorin looked thoughtful. ‘I can only theorize on what its purpose might become, should it fall into the hands of the private sector or the military.’

                ‘Indeed. The implications are quite terrifying. But what it represents… I do not think should be thrown away.’ Gandalf had that look on his face, the one that made you feel like he were a teacher and you his student and that he had just put before you some secret, invisible test.

                ‘Well.’ The moment passed, and Thorin rose to his feet. ‘I believe it is time for me to go.’

                ‘Oh, we will come as well.’

                ‘Will you?’

                ‘Oh, yes. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

* * *

 

The anxiety in the main hall was so strong that you could very nearly smell it in the air. It was an electric thing, tasting faintly of metal and nostalgia – if I hadn’t done _this_ and if I had said _that_ , perhaps the situation would be different. There was a low murmur filling the available space, which there wasn’t a lot of due to how cramped the place was. But it was immediately cut off as Thorin walked up to the dais so that everyone could see him and, more importantly, so he could see them.

                The term ‘you could hear a pin drop’ might be cliché, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t accurate.

                Bilbo stood next to Gandalf, off to the side, and was rather glad none of the attention was on him. Not that any of it could be spared; the pressure of eyeballs would have worn through Thorin in an instant, were it possible.

                The new CEO’s gaze scanned the crowd, giving the impression, though it wasn’t plausible, that he managed to look every single one of them in the eye. Finally, he spoke, and although he did have a very powerful voice, Bilbo knew that the hall was built so that sound would be magnified and cast to every corner of the room from that particular spot.

                ‘You have doubtless heard of the arrest and trial of your former chief executive. And if you haven’t, you soon will once he is imprisoned.’ There was a brief muttering in the crowd, both at his words and the certainty with which he said them. It stilled as he went on. ‘I know many of you are uncertain about your current job security, and for a good reason. I know Smaug, in his many illegal enterprises, could not have been working alone and if I know anything, I know that as soon as he is questioned, he will throw as many of you under the bus as he can in the hope of saving himself. In which case, I probably won’t have to fire you because you will be in enough trouble as it is.’

                Bilbo winced, but scanned the crowd. Most people looked nervous, but several were trying too hard to look inconspicuous, and he made a note of their faces. Just in case.

                ‘But those of you who have not, and have continued to perform admirably as the company slumped into mediocrity have no reason to fear. I know Smaug replaced almost every member of the staff when he became CEO, partly out of paranoia, partly out of prejudice. I may not be certain of much, but the day I look in the mirror and find that I am anything like him will be the day I’ll consider my life a failure of existence. So to put it plainly: I’m not going fire you.’

                There was huge collective sigh of relief, but Thorin wasn’t done yet. ‘Meanwhile, I have plans to expand the company on a national level, and of opening up a branch in Ered Luin, among other things. I will be calling a board meeting tomorrow to discuss the matter. I will also be speaking to the engineering and marketing departments sometime next week. Thank you for your time.’

                Amazed at how their luck had turned, the collective body of the staff scratched its head, shrugged, and went back to work. The electric taste of anxiety disappeared, and Bilbo found himself smiling unreasonably as Thorin walked over to them. ‘Not bad,’ he settled for. ‘Not bad at all.’

                Thorin inclined his head. ‘You thought I was going to fire them.’

                Gandalf’s eyes twinkled. ‘Let us say, my friend, that it is a pleasant surprise that you didn’t.’

                ‘Hm. Perhaps next time you will know not make assumptions.’

                Bilbo made a face. ‘You make it sound like there will be another heist to pull and a CEO to overthrow and a company to get back.’

                ‘I make no promises.’

                ‘Just the one.’

                ‘Yes?’

                ‘No. Warehouses.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second-to-last chapter, we have just the epilogue to go.
> 
> Cosmological constant:  
> -Pac-man. Are you even surprised?


	25. Epilogue

A Saturday night, just like any other Saturday night, complete with snacks, video games and helpful insomnia. Governments may fall, bad guys may be defeated, and there may be a sudden discontinuation of the production of Mountain Dew, but if there is one constant, it is that where two or more gamers come together, there will be LAN party at some point.

                Of course, there was the slight change of actually occupying the same space as the person you were playing against.

                ‘You cheated!’

                ‘Did not! Anyway, it’s not possible to cheat in this game.’

                ‘Obviously, you’ve managed to find a way.’

                ‘Hand me the carrots.’

                ‘I am so glad I brought my own snacks. How can you call it a LAN if there isn’t any disgustingly unhealthy food?’ Kili sat back as his avatar exploded in a rain of green goo and pulled out a bag of chips.

                Tauriel made a face. ‘A life without clogged arteries?’

                ‘Doesn’t happen.’

                ‘What? Yes it does.’

                ‘Nah. Never been a documented case of it in a dwarf. We do have a higher risk of losing our sight as we get older, though.’

                ‘Huh.’ Tauriel tore open the bag, and gnawed half-heartedly at a carrot. ‘That explains your food, I guess.’

                ‘Hey, our food is awesome!’

                ‘No, I like it! There’s just kind of, a lot of it, I guess.’

                ‘Damn right.’

                She glanced at him. ‘You never told me how lunch went, now that I recall. After I kissed you.’

                Kili made a face. ‘Blagh. Mostly they didn’t say anything, because mum made them keep quiet. And my brother thinks I have an elf fetish anyway.’

                ‘Do you?’

                ‘No! I just happen to think some people who are elves are not entirely bad-looking.’

                ‘Relax, I’m joking.’ She pulled him over for a kiss. ‘I happen to think you’re not entirely bad-looking yourself.’

                ‘Hnn.’ He had a rather silly smile on his face, and bumped foreheads with her again, which she still found dreadfully adorable. ‘I don’t know about my uncle, though. He hasn’t said anything and I keep expecting him to, but apparently he told Dáin – our cousin – to shut up and not let the door hit him on the way out when he said I was an embarrassment to the family. Or so Bofur told me. He in particular seems to find the whole thing hilarious.’

                Tauriel smiled. ‘I like him much better for it.’

                ‘What about you?’

                ‘My parents haven’t heard yet, my boss is avoiding the subject, as he should because it’s none of his business, and Legolas just seemed mystified.’

                ‘You’re so elvishly efficient sometimes.’

                ‘I am, aren’t I?’

                He kissed her again, then settled on the sofa next to her to braid her hair. He seemed determined to one day braid all of it, but had yet to get further than half-way. Relaxing to the now familiar feeling of someone else’s hands in her hair, she pondered a question that had been nudging against her mind for a while now. Eventually, realizing she was probably asking the wrong question, she said ‘Kili... Are _you_ male?’

                She could hear him frown in confusion. ‘What, do you mean like ‘do I have XY chromosomes’?’

                She nodded.

                ‘Not really.’ He went on braiding, and a thought seemed to occur. ‘Why, do you mind?’

                She thought about it. It was an answer that wasn't usual or easily understandable within her usual frame of reference. But that didn't mean it was the wrong one.

                ‘Nah.’

* * *

 

It was evening at the end of summer – the autumn sidling up to replace its sibling, and would in turn soon be whacked straight out of the court by the eldest, winter, who didn’t have time for pleasantries. But here, and now, it didn’t seem to loom quite as it might have, just a few months ago.

                There were people trickling into the former safehouse, which was now just a house, or perhaps a home. Most of them were normal-sized, although there was one shorter, and one or two that were taller. There was cooking, and poker, video-games and dinner and also quiet or not-so-quiet conversation. There was togetherness, and singularity because in its essentials, a family is more than the sum of its parts, and the parts greater than their whole.

                There were many evenings like this one, and also quite a lot of half-watched movies where everyone lost the plot halfway through because everyone was talking all at once. It wasn’t a case of ‘back to normal’ because normal for them had been quite different, but really it was better than that. There were new jobs and careers and family members arriving from the other side of the country and settling down, and others that decided to return to a formerly forced home, because now that it was by choice, it wasn’t such an unattractive prospect.

                For Bilbo, life went on much the same, back in his hobbit hole, although visits from the Sackville-Bagginses were not as numerous and rather more subdued. But now there was also going to the pub with Bofur and the lads in the evenings, or having coffee with Dís at her new-old office at the university, and, frequently, dragging Thorin out to lunch to make sure he didn’t overwork himself.

                And then, there were quiet nights like this one, where he sat outside in the still evening twilight and watched the smoke from his pipe swirl into the air like ink into clear water. He could hear the laughter back inside the house, someone’s voice raised in objection to something of, doubtlessly, less importance than was pretended. Thorin joined him, and the aroma of the different types of tobacco was surprisingly not an unpleasant mix.

                ‘I used to think that once the heist was over, you would leave,’ he said in that honest way of his, bordering on offensive. His beard was finally long enough to braid, to the delight of his sister, who had remarked that he’d looked like a homeless person with it cut short. Though there had been a look in her eye Bilbo did not know how to translate, so doubtlessly it was of greater importance than he could imagine.

                Bilbo raised an eyebrow. ‘That eager to get rid of me, were you?’

                ‘I thought the thrill was all you were after. I’ve realized by now that I was wrong.’

                Bilbo shrugged. ‘I used to think the same. I worried I’d end up chasing chances at law-breaking like some sort of addict.’

                Thorin hummed. ‘I guess you really are the hedonistic hobbit I expected you to be.’

                ‘Oh, I’m not saying I was wrong. Just that it was a different addiction than I first assumed.’

                Thorin raised an eyebrow, a smile hiding in the contours of his face. ‘Did you find your fix, then?’

                Glancing back into the house, teeming with guests, and then back at the friend who was watching him carefully, he shrugged.

                ‘I think it’s safe to say that I have.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish to again thank my wonderful beta, Jenny, without whom this story would never have been posted, and to you, dear readers and commenters, for taking interest in it.  
> I would also like to think myself (because I'm a selfish bastard like that) for suddenly managing to turn out a nearly 50K draft in the span of two weeks. But in all honesty people will do anything to avoid schoolwork, and that includes writing short novels for internet consumption.


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